It's an Odd Coincidence
by Telcontar Rulz
Summary: AU. Logan 'Wolverine' Howlett finds himself in a very strange place. He tries to figure everything out, but he seems cause more problems than solve them. Will he be able to deal with it, and will he ever get home? A crossover between X-Men and LotR.
1. Bree vs Brie

**It's An Odd Coincidence**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize. They all belong to their owners, and I'm just borrowing them for this little escapade.

**Note:** Due to me being a ditz, I mixed up my camp dates. It was 2-6 February, so I got loads of time to type this up. Hope you enjoy. :)

_This is based on bookverse LotR (mostly) and movie-verse X-Men so Wolverine will probably be OOC to those of you who go by the comics. _

**Chapter 1: Bree vs. Brie**

He was falling. It wasn't amusing at all to be hurled from the top of the Empire State Building. It was all the fault of the humans and their inability to accept mutants, really. If they'd been just a little bit more tolerant, Magneto wouldn't have turned militant, and if Magneto hadn't turned into a militant, then he, Logan Howlett, better known as the Wolverine, wouldn't have had to have this little disagreement with Magneto which had culminated in this not-so-little showdown on the top of the Empire State Building. And if there had been no showdown, Magneto would not have hurled Logan off the top of said building.

It didn't help that Logan had been one of the main players who'd destroyed Magneto's abilities, at least temporarily. If only those damn scientists had invented a 'cure' for mutation that was a bit longer lasting, as in permanent, then they wouldn't have had to deal with the same metal mangling militant mutant again.

The wind rushed past his ears, ripping through his tightly curled hair with the two peaks like the ears of a wolverine. He expected to hit concrete any moment, but instead, he found his fall cushioned by a mound of soft vegetation.

Logan shook his head to clear his thoughts. The sky above him was riddled with stars. That didn't look too much like the sky which he had known in New York, although, truth be told, he wasn't much of an astronomer. He was so dizzy from his fall and his near death experience. He hadn't even gotten to his feet when he felt the edge of a cold steel blade against his throat. He glanced down and vaguely registered that it looked like a sword. 'Who on earth uses swords?' he thought. He glanced up. Standing above him was a tall man with greasy long dark hair threaded with silver. On his cheeks were months of stubble. 'The guy needs an electric razor.' It was too dark to make out any other features.

"Who the hell are you?" Logan demanded out loud. "And you might want to get that thing away from me." He glanced pointedly at the sword.

"I should be the one asking the questions," said the man. He paid no heed to Logan's warnings. "Who are you? I saw you falling out of thin air. Where do you come from? Who do you work for? What is your business here?"

"Hold it! A man's brain can only process so much at a time, for God's sake!" said Logan irritably. What was this, the Spanish Inquisition? As if getting thrown off the Empire State Building by that metal mangling militant mutant was not enough, he was now being threatened and interrogated by a madman with a sword who dressed like Robin Hood. 'Count to ten, Logan,' he told himself. 'Getting angry isn't going to help you get out of here, wherever this is.'

"My name is Logan," he began. "Logan Howlett, although if you've heard of me, then I think you'll know me as the Wolverine." It was worth a try. He wasn't exactly an obscure character. Logan managed to rein in his temper. Friendly or not, this strange man might prove to be the key to his getting out of here.

"Logan Howl It?" said the man in confusion. "Why do you need to howl, and howl what?"

"No, no! That's my surname! What planet do you come from? Jesus!"

"What is a planet?" said the man. "I know not of that which you speak. And no, my name is not Jesus. You have not answered all my questions, stranger. From whence do you hail?"

"Holy crap, you speak like bloody Shakespeare!" said Logan, who was quickly losing what calm he had. "All right, I come from Canada, got it? Ca-na-da. That's up north of the United States—you do know what the United States are, right?"

"Shake spear? Shake what spear? I have no spear. The united states of what?"

Logan swore, and a stream of unwholesome words poured from his mouth, making his companion grimace. The man might not have understood the exact meanings, but they needed no translations.

"All right!" raged Logan. "You asked me questions and when I give you the bloody answers, you don't know what the bloody hell I'm talking about! And get that damn sword away from me, you moron, or you'll regret it!"

* * *

This certainly was a most unusual day, even by Aragorn's standards. He'd been getting ready to make camp when a man had fallen out of nowhere. And when Aragorn had started asking him questions, he'd given the ranger a whole lot of meaningless answers and then gotten furious when Aragorn said that he had not understood him. He listened to the stranger's outburst. The son of Arathorn had travelled the breadth and width of Middle Earth —almost— and he'd never seen or heard something _quite_ like this strange man. The ranger was almost certain that this Logan Howl It was no servant of Sauron's, because the Dark Lord certainly would have employed someone who was slightly less...noticeable.

"Are you finished yet?" he asked Logan when the other man stopped for a breath, "because I did not understand a single word of what you've just said."

"Get. Your. Bloody. Sword. Away. From. Me."

"Why should I trust that you will not harm me?"

"Because if you don't get that sword away, I _will_ harm you, got it, pal?"

Logan's threatening manner was not making Aragorn feel any more comfortable. Despite the other man's threats, he kept his blade against Logan's neck. Better to be safe than to be sorry. However, he was definitely not prepared for what came next. Later, he was sorry for not taking Logan a little more seriously.

There was a flash of silver. Aragorn leapt back. Three metal claws had erupted from between Logan's knuckles and Aragorn's sword lay in four pieces. Well, three pieces lay on the ground. The fourth was still in Aragorn's hand.

"I told you," said Logan.

"What do you want?" said Aragorn. Why was it that he always got into trouble?

"I want answers," said Logan. He retracted his claws, and Aragorn wondered if his other hand had hidden claws as well. If he could somehow persuade Logan that he meant him no harm, he would definitely take the man to Rivendell. Lord Elrond needed to see this. "First, where am I?"

"You are in Eriador, close to the village of Bree," replied Aragorn.

"Brie?" said Logan. Had he somehow fallen off the Empire State Building and into France? He knew that Brie was the name of a French cheese, and it was quite possible that some eccentric Frenchman had named a village after his cheese, or vice versa. 'Nice,' he thought. He was even better than Kurt Wagner, the teleporter. He bet that even Kurt could not teleport from New York to France.

"Yes, Bree," said Aragorn. At last, they were making progress, at least on the communication front.

"So, is this where brie cheese was invented?" asked Logan. His mouth watered at the thought of hot pizza with pepperoni, mushroom and brie, followed by an ice-cold bottle of Heineken. Fighting always made him hungry, and it had been a hard fight.

Aragorn looked at Logan blankly. "I presume that cheese made in Bree would be called Bree cheese," he said cautiously. What was the strange man playing at?

"So what are you doing, running around in France with a bloody big sword and dressed in this fancy costume?"

Aragorn looked down at his clothes. He knew they desperately needed a wash, but fancy costume? He would have thought that such a description would apply better to Logan's outlandish clothes. His garb was decidedly not fancy, and he wasn't wearing a 'costume' either, at least not in that sense of the word. "I beg your pardon?" he asked.

"Okay, I mean, what are you doing here? You don't look French to me."

"Firstly, my name is not 'Oh-kay'. You may call me Strider," said Aragorn. First, the man thought that his name was 'Jesus', and now 'Oh-kay'? Did he not know that it was common courtesy not to call a stranger by any names until the other person revealed his name? Of course, Aragorn was not about to reveal his true name to anyone. "Secondly, I never said I was 'French'." Whatever that meant.

"No, no!" said Logan. " 'Okay' is an expression! It means 'fine' or 'all right' or whatever the equivalent is in Fre...British." Wait, didn't the British speak English too? Maybe Strider was —Logan looked the man up and down in an attempt to determine his ethnicity— Italian. There was no other way he could explain the language barrier which existed between him and this Strider, despite the fact that they were both speaking in fluent English, as far as Logan was concerned. "Oh, never mind. Just take me to Brie, o—all right?"

The more Aragorn observed Logan, the more convinced he became that the man was mad. He even sounded odd. Elrond would be very interested in him indeed. "All right," he said, picking up the pieces of his sword and sliding them back into the sheath. The appearance of having a sword usually deterred those who would otherwise harm him. If that didn't work, well, he would have to trust that Logan truly meant no harm and could be relied upon in emergencies. "I'm staying here tonight, but tomorrow, I'll take you to Bree."

* * *

It was very wet, and Logan was getting more and more miserable. Damn this bloody French weather. Wasn't France supposed to be all sunny? He became even less happy when he saw 'Brie'. He'd imagined a French town to be quaint and picturesque. 'Ugly' was the only word he could use to describe this place. It looked like something out of Monty Python. He wrinkled his nose when he caught a whiff of the air. Did everyone in this place have blocked toilets? "This is Brie?" he hissed to his companion.

"Yes," said Strider. "We're headed for the _Prancing Pony_. It is an inn."

"The _Prancing Pony_? That's an odd French name. For one, it isn't even French."

"I never said it was 'French', whatever that means."

"But we're in France!"

"Who told you that?"

"You did! You said we were going to Brie, and since Brie is the name of a French cheese, I assumed that the village of Brie was in France!"

"That was your assumption. I don't know any France."

Logan grabbed Strider by the arm. "Wait, wait," he said. "Let's just clear this up. Where exactly are we?"

"I've told you before," said Aragorn. Logan had a very strong grip. "We are in the village of Bree."

"And where is the village of Brie?"

"In Eriador."

"And where is 'Eerie Ardour'?"

"In Middle Earth."

"Middle Earth? What the hell is that? Everyone knows that the core of the Earth is made out of molten metal. You know, I do know a thing or two, so don't try and be funny."

"Middle Earth is a place, otherwise known as Arda." Aragorn looked at Logan strangely. Even madmen knew what Middle Earth was, surely. Things were getting very odd indeed, and he was determined to find out just what was wrong with Logan.

* * *

The _Prancing Pony_ seemed to be the normal everyday bar, minus the cage fights. More men in funny clothes were drinking, eating, laughing and gambling. Nothing seemed out of place, until Logan asked the bartender for the use of a phone.

"I won't be a minute, sir," said the cheerful fat barman, fetching a pewter mug and filling it with beer. Logan's keen nose caught the fragrant aroma of fermented wheat. After he'd made his phone calls, he would order himself some of that beer.

The barman handed Logan a tankard filled with foam. "There you go, sir," he said. "Your foam."

Foam? "What the... "No, not _foam_!" said Logan. "Phone!"

"Yes, sir, I know what foam is," said the barman. He seemed annoyed that Logan thought he didn't know what foam was. Muttering to himself about crazy people who belonged in lunatic asylums, he picked up the tankard and stalked away to the corner table where Strider was sitting with his hood hiding his face in shadow, smoking a pipe calmly as if it was every day that people got tankards full of beer foam when they asked for the use of a phone.

There were small people running about in the pub. They barely reached Logan's hip. Logan gave Strider a nudge. "Aren't they underage?" he said, pointing to the little people. They were an odd bunch, all with wild curly hair, and none of them wore shoes.

"Underage?" said Strider. Even though Logan couldn't see his expression, he could hear the other man's amusement. "They're all adults, but I know what you mean."

"You do?" said Logan. "That's got to be a first. So, why are they all midgets?" That earned him a glare from said midgets.

"Logan, they're hobbits, and they have good hearing. You don't want to insult them."

"It's not an insult to say that a midget is a midget," said Logan, a little more quietly, looking wistfully at Aragorn's tankard of beer, and it wasn't just foam. "Hey, Strider, you think you can lend me some more money?"

"I am going to have to," said Strider, handing Logan a few odd coins. "Why did you order foam?"

"I didn't order _foam_," said Logan, stressing the last word. "I asked for a _phone_. Hey, you don't happen to have one, do you?"

"A what?" said Strider. "No, I don't have a 'fone', whatever that is."

"You know, ring ring, Alexander Bell?" Living in a school came with a price. Logan gave up. Everyone in this 'Brie' and 'Eerie Ardour' was mad, including Strider. Either that, or he had somehow been teleported into a very backward third world country where they did not know about telephones. "Oh, never mind. Don't think I can explain it very well anyway."

He took Strider's money and went and ordered himself a pint of beer and a meal of stew. The bowl of stew did smell wonderful, but the lumps of meat in it looked odd. Some of them looked like bits of offal. Logan shrugged. He was hungry, and he'd had haggis before. He attacked his meal with a spoon. "Aren't you gonna eat?" he asked Strider in between large mouthfuls. "We've been walking the whole day."

"You can eat. I cannot afford to be distracted," said Strider. Logan finished his meal, and then stared longingly at Strider's pipe. He still had three cigars in his pocket, but once he finished them, he wasn't sure if he could get more in a place which didn't even have telephones. He contented himself with thinking about what he would do once he got back to civilized society.

The door of the pub opened again, and four more of those 'hobbits' came in. They were soaked to the skin. The one in lead looked about him warily, and Logan could sense his fear. He was behaving as if he was being hunted. Strider gently touched his elbow to catch his attention. "Watch them," he said.

"Why? You think they're gonna get up to some mischief?" asked Logan. Those four mid—hobbits didn't look like they could do much. In fact, they made him feel as if he was back in the Xavier mansion and babysitting.

"I don't know," said Strider. "Just watch them. Danger is nearby. I can sense it."

"Really? I can't."

"Just because you can't feel anything doesn't meant that it does not exist."

The four hobbits spoke to the innkeeper, who happened to be the man who had given Logan his foam, for a while, asking about the availability of rooms. They were led away by the cheerful fat man. Moments later, they returned. The dirt had been washed from their faces. Beer was brought to them, and the food came later. Logan goggled at the vast amount. How could four small people eat so much? The younger of them laughed as they ate and drank, but the older one, the leader, had a thoughtful expression on his face, as if there was a lot on his mind. That did not interest Logan in the least. Now that he'd drunken and eaten, he wanted to sleep and take a bath, not in that order. He didn't know why Strider was being so mysterious, as if telling him a wee bit more was going to kill him. Instead, he leaned back in his chair and did as Strider had told him; he watched the 'hobbits' through half-closed eyes.

The two younger ones seemed to be enjoying themselves and even the older ones were beginning to relax. Their tankards of beer were about the same size as their heads. It was a miracle that they could still walk in straight lines. Logan was very impressed. His keen ears caught snatches of their conversation over the din that the other patrons were making. The fat one —Logan was never one for being politically correct— was talking about the two of them and their incessant staring. He glanced at Strider to see if the other man had noticed that the 'hobbits' were getting suspicious. If Strider had noticed, he gave no indication of it. Instead, he calmly smoked his pipe.

The smell of smoke made Logan feel restless. He pulled a cigar out of his pocket. "What..." began Strider as Logan lit his cigar from his pipe.

"Sorry," said Logan, not sounding apologetic at all. "Couldn't be bothered goin' over to the fireplace." He put his cigar to his lips and took a deep pull, closing his eyes in appreciation. Nothing could beat a genuine Cuban cigar. Too bad he only had two more left, and this place didn't look like it sold cigars, never mind the Cuban variety. As if to prove his suspicions, Strider stared at the cigar.

"What is that?" he asked.

"It's a cigar," replied Logan. "Sorta like your pipe, y'know. ExceptI can't recycle it."

"Re— what?"

"Use it again," amended Logan. "Anyway, aren't you supposed to be watching the 'hobbits'?"

"I can do two things at the same time," retorted Strider. "And can you please lower your voice? They're not supposed to know that we are actually watching them." That last part was said in a barely audible whisper, but Logan caught it. He shrugged, and went back to smoking his cigar.

Aragorn was not only watching the Hobbits, but he was watching Logan as well. That last whisper would have escaped the hearing of most men, especially since the _Prancing Pony_ was a very noisy place, and yet Logan seemed to have heard it clearly, or else he would not have stopped talking. Well, maybe now was not the time to worry about who or what Logan was. He turned his full attention to the hobbits. One of the younger ones had left the vicinity of the inn, while the other three had gotten up to go to the common room in the inn where most of the merry making took place. He gave Logan a nudge.

"What?" asked the other man lazily.

"We're going to follow them," whispered Aragorn. "And please, try not to draw attention to yourself."

Logan snorted, but he did not give Aragorn a retort. Instead, he pressed the burning end of the 'cigar' against his palm to snub it out. The ranger winced as the smell of burnt flesh reached his nose, and he wondered if Logan truly had something wrong with his head. What sort of man would burn himself on purpose? At least the other man did not seem to be enjoying it. Logan took away the cigar and stuck it back in his pocket. There was a large circular burn in the centre of his palm. However, as Aragorn watched, the mark shrank, and the darkened flesh became healthy again. Within moments, the burn was gone, as if it had not been there in the first place.

"Weren't you going to follow them?" asked Logan, indicating the common room. The hobbits were already out of sight, and there were sounds of laughter coming from the half-closed door.

"I was," said Aragorn, determined to mask his shock.

Logan smirked. "Well, lead the way then," he said. The ranger glared at him, but said nothing as he slipped into the room silently, as if he was afraid of being seen. Logan sauntered in after him, still smirking. He knew he had scared Strider with that little trick of his, and that made him feel good.

The common room of the inn was filled with smoke from the pipes of the inn's patrons. Logan blinked a couple of times, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dim light, which came from one fireplace and three lanterns hanging from rafters. The place looked positively medieval! He leaned against the wall, next to where Strider was standing, as stiff and straight as a pillar.

"You know, considering that this is a place of fun, you can relax a little," he suggested.

"Relax?" said Strider in a low voice. "What do you mean?"

"Are you trying to tell me that you don't know what the word 'relax' means?" said Logan incredulously. "Geez, I'm really beginning to think that I've fallen into Shakespeare's time!"

"Perhaps you can explain the meaning of the word to me," said Strider, still keeping his voice just loud enough for Logan's ears to catch the sound.

"You know, rest, take things easy..." Logan trailed off. "I'm beginning to feel like a dictionary."

"A what?"

"Oh...forget I said anything."

Logan looked around the room. There were a lot of hobbits there, and they sat with their own kind. There were also a few other short people with bushy beards and low rumbling voices which were like the sound of rocks tumbling off a cliff. "What the hell are they?" he blurted out, before he could think about whether he should say such a thing or not. Even worse, he hadn't even bothered lowering his voice.

The murmur of conversation decreased in volume, and most people turned in his direction. He glanced at Strider. Even though the other man's face was hidden by shadow, Logan sensed that he would have liked very much to kill him. Just as well that most of these people probably did not know what 'hell' was, or else they might just have tried that. Logan held up his hands in apology, and they all resumed their conversations.

"Did I not tell you _not_ to draw attention to us?" hissed Strider.

"Hey, I drew attention to _me_," said Logan, shrugging. "They didn't really see you."

"Most of them did not, but some of them did," said Strider. Logan immediately turned his attention to his companion, for Strider's voice was edged with worry.

"Err...erm...sorry," said the mutant lamely. "I'll just shut up, okay?"

Having recently learned that 'okay' meant 'all right' in Logan's strange dialect, Strider nodded and did not pursue the matter further. Nor did he explain to Logan about why he was so worried. The two men simply stood in their corner and watched the goings on in the room. That was when he noticed that he and Strider weren't the only ones standing in the shadows and spying, for lack of a better word. There were other men there, and they didn't seem to be paying much attention to the numerous conversations. Instead, he got the distinct feeling that he was being watched. He straightened himself, preparing for a fight, only to have Strider tug on his sleeve subtly.

"Act normal," he whispered, and then he pulled Logan to a table. The two men sat down. Strider flagged down one of the barmaids and asked her to bring them two tankards of beer. The way she looked at him implied that she was afraid of him. She nodded quickly and fled before he could say any more. Moments later, she returned, deposited the beer on the table, quickly took the coins which Strider offered her, and almost tripped in her haste to get away.

"We're not that scary, are we?" said Logan as the girl disappeared back to the main dining hall.

"Breelanders do not like strangers very much," replied Strider, "especially not large strange looking men such as you and me."

"Sounds like a friendly bunch," said Logan, raising an eyebrow. Strider pushed one of the tankards towards him, and he took it with a nod of thanks. "At least the beer's good." He took an appreciative sip, at the same time looking out for those 'hobbits'.

The serious one had now retired to a corner and was watching his companions. The other two hobbits, who now had enough alcohol in their bloodstream to loosen their tongues, were telling stories from their home. Logan almost snorted out loud as they described their mayor as a 'floured dumpling'.

Strider had stretched out his long legs before him and was puffing steadily on his pipe. Unlike Logan, he did look as if he was just enjoying the atmosphere, even though the other man suspected that he had not let down his guard one little bit.

The serious hobbit was now talking to the innkeeper, who happened to be the man who had given Logan his tankard of foam. The mutant strained to hear what they were saying over the sounds of laughter coming from the table at the very centre. Someone was telling relatively obscene jokes, much to the delight of the inn's other customers. Occasionally, both the fat man and the hobbit glanced in their direction, and Logan heard Strider's name being mentioned, as well as 'that strange man with horns'. He was about to tell Strider, but the other man cut him off.

"I know what they're talking about," he murmured around the stem of his pipe. "It is quite obvious. Logan, would you mind moving aside for a while? I want to talk to the hobbit alone."

"What if I say that you're not going to be alone for a while because the hobbit's not the only one who's interested in you?"

At that declaration, Strider stopped pretending to be half asleep and straightened himself. Logan was right. There were men coming towards them, and they did not look friendly. Even worse, his sword was in four pieces.

"I've got your back, if anything happens," he heard Logan say.

"Thank you," he whispered. "And until something happens, can you please not say anything?"

Logan did something funny, and it seemed to Strider that he was miming pulling something along his lips, whatever that meant. The other man gave him an odd look, and then sighed. "Right," he said. "I guess you don't have zippers here either."

"Logan, you just promised not to say anything."

The group of men surrounded them before Logan could retort. The flickering fire in the hearth cast dark shadows on their faces, making them seem even more malicious. They regarded Strider with some hostility, and barely paid any attention to Logan, something which the latter decidedly detested.

"What business have you in Bree?" asked the spokesman. He was a short burly man with a flat face and curiously slanted eyes. His legs were bowed, and his shoulders were broad. Logan tried to guess his nationality, and failed.

"My kind wander here and there," replied Strider easily enough, taking his pipe out of his mouth just long enough for him to answer the question clearly. "It just happens so that I have to spend the night here."

The man narrowed his eyes at Strider. These rangers didn't just wander around aimlessly. They always had a goal. "What were you doing then?" he asked.

"Wandering, and searching for a living, as always," said Strider. He indicated his weathered clothes and rundown appearance. "A man has to live somehow, my friend."

Logan snorted, but he bit back any caustic remarks that he had been about to make. He had promised to keep quiet after all. However, he wondered how on earth Strider was able to be polite to these gits, who were being more than rude. If it had been him, he would have told them to bugger off. Perhaps 'bugger off' was not in Strider's vocabulary. The man spoke as if he had gone to a posh school, like Eton or something. 'Friend' was certainly not something which Logan would have addressed the burly stranger as.

Upon hearing the snort, Strider gave Logan a warning look, but it was too late. The Wolverine had achieved what he wanted; the men had noticed him. "And what's this?" asked the burly man, eyeing Logan with a sneer as if he was some sort of exotic but repulsive specimen.

"What?" demanded Logan. "What do you mean 'what'? I think you mean 'who', mister." He took one menacing step towards the short stranger. Broad-shouldered or not, he wouldn't last long against the mutant's superior size and strength, and not to mention the metal enforced fist. Logan wouldn't even need to use his claws. Only Strider's hand on his arm kept him from beating the man into a pulp. Damn it all, why was Strider so diplomatic? Hadn't he ever heard of 'violent negotiations'? That's what that Anakin fellow in those _Star Wars_ movies used, and he ended up being king of the world, or something like that. The only things Logan had ever paid attention to in those movies were the fancy spaceships and that very cute princess. Or was she a queen? Well, she was a gun-wielding lady, and that was all he cared about.

"Well?" asked the burly man, crossing his arms triumphantly.

"I'm a mercenary and an assassin, if that's what you wanna know," growled Logan. He flexed his hands, as if to demonstrate just what he could do. It wasn't exactly a lie. He had assassinated people, and he had been someone's hired thug. He just wasn't either of those things at the moment.

Strider looked at him in alarm, and the burly rude stranger suddenly didn't look so confident. The mutant glared at them, and his top lip curled up a little, revealing straight white teeth. He knew he looked menacing. He was the Wolverine, for goodness' sake! Logan sat back down, satisfied with the result.

At that moment, cheers erupted from the gathered crowd, who had not noticed this confrontation in the shadows. A hobbit —that overly thoughtful one, to be exact— was being shoved onto the large table in the middle of the room, which, for the moment, served as an impromptu stage. "Sing!" the drunken crowd shouted. "Sing!" The hobbit looked stricken, and then he began to belt out a ridiculous song about cows flying over the moon, leaping and jumping like an Irish dancer. The malicious strangers forgot about Logan and Strider, and they melted away.

"There," said Logan so softly so that only Strider could hear him. "See? All you need to do is show a little bit of force."

"You didn't tell me that you're a mercenary," said Strider. He sounded rather hostile. Logan completely understood his sentiments. Being a hired thug wasn't exactly an esteemed profession.

"I _was_," said Logan. "I changed jobs; I'm a respectable teacher now."

"What do you teach?" asked Strider incredulously. Logan was so uncouth; he could ill-imagine him to be educated.

"Literature," said Logan smoothly. Then he grinned when he saw the look on Strider's face. "Nah, just kidding," he said. "I teach the kids self-defence and physical education. You know, make them run and jump and all that." That did not make the other man any less shocked. If anything, he seemed even more incredulous.

"You teach young _goats_ self-defence?" asked Strider.

"No, not young goats," said Logan. God, didn't this man know any slang? 'They don't even have phones,' he reminded himself. "I teach children —where I come from, we call children 'kids'."

"Right," said Strider. Too bad he didn't have time to have an in-depth conversation with Logan right now. He was rather fascinating, if he was indeed telling the truth. The ranger turned his attention back to the dancing and singing hobbit on the table. Gandalf had told him that he should be looking for a hobbit by the name of Frodo Baggins, but who should be going by the name of Underhill. He watched as the hobbit made high leap, and then lost his balance. As he was falling, he suddenly vanished.

"What the...?" said Logan, springing to his feet. "Did he just teleport?" Were there such things as mutant hobbits?

Strider had no time to answer him, for the whole room had gone silent, and then everyone started talking. He searched for signs of the hobbit. Nothing. Just before he was about to panic —inwardly, at least— he felt someone bump into his chair. On the floor sat the flustered hobbit, and he was gasping for breath. "What did you do that for, Mr. Underhill?" he demanded. "They're all talking about you now, and no doubt everyone will be looking for you."

"How did you know my name?" asked the startled hobbit.

"I hear things," said Strider. "No doubt others will know your name as well —not 'Underhill', but your real name— and you just stirred that pot of trouble with your finger."

"I don't know what you're talking about," said the hobbit.

"Oh, I think you do," said Strider very softly. The hobbit grew pale. "Now, if you please, go back and reassure your friends that you are quite all right, and once this mess has died down, I would like a word with you, Mr. Baggins."

"Baggins?" asked a rather perplexed Logan. "I thought his name was Underhill." A look from Strider silenced him. Well, he could keep quiet for now, but sooner or later, he was going to find out the truth. Once Logan got his claws into something, he never let go.

* * *

**A/N: **I hope you enjoyed this. It's my first time writing bookverse, so if you have any tips, advice, and/or suggestions, then feel free to tell me. I consider everything.


	2. Ruses

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize. I'm just borrowing them for this little escapade.

**Smithy: **I also hope that a certain sexy fellow from Kent will get voted up as the sexiest man of 2009, for he well deserves it, but we shall see. ;)

**Kaisaan: **X-men is a really wonderful series, even if it can't really compare with LotR. Still, I find it highly entertaining and am glad that you enjoy it too. I'll try and explain more about Aragorn in this chapter (and the upcoming chapters). If you have any more suggestions, do tell me.

**Shade: **I'm glad you're liking the story, and here's the update. ;)

**Mary-emy: **I've always thought of Logan as being Canadian, because of the fact that when he first appears in X-men, he's in Canada, and he got his procedure done in Canada (I think). He's also rather old, so it could be possible that an old-fashioned American/Canadian would use British slang? Maybe? If you think of more appropriate curses (which are not profanities), then feel free to inform me. I'm not very good with slang.

**Chapter 2: Ruses**

"You know, you scared him," Logan pointed out as he followed Aragorn out of the common room. The crowds of patrons had now more or less dispersed. Most of them had still been muttering about disappearing hobbits when they had left. The fire in the great hearth had grown low.

"I know," said Aragorn without turning to look back. "He needed to be scared."

"Well, you're a hell of a nice guy, aren't you?" said Logan sarcastically.

"When you've seen as much as I have, Logan, you'll know that it's important to be appropriately scared at the right time," said Strider. He ventured up a dark stairway, and more or less melted into the shadows. It was uncanny how he could do that.

"I've seen lots," retorted Logan.

"Perhaps," conceded Aragorn, "but you haven't seen much of Arda yet." Well, that was an accurate assumption, wasn't it? Logan seemed as if he came from another world, and his claws and his healing abilities made him unnatural. Strider wasn't certain if there were other worlds beyond the spheres of this one —Valinor did not count— but he could not rule out the possibilities either. He had dropped the name 'Baggins' in front of Logan deliberately to test him. If Logan was working for the Dark Lord, then he would probably know it. So far, the other man had not shown any signs that he found the name significant, but there was still much time.

And if Logan was working for the Dark Lord, then he probably knew too much anyway, and the best thing that Aragorn could do at the moment was to pretend to be completely oblivious to the fact to avoid alarming the spy. He presumed that the man would want to follow the seemingly unsuspecting ranger and learn more about the plans of the Dark Lord's enemies before striking. At least, he was hoping. If Logan wanted to take the Ring, it would be very easy for him to do so.

It had been a risk, bringing Logan to Bree, but it had been a calculated one. If Logan was indeed a servant of the Dark Lord, then he would have known where Bree was anyway, and he would have found Frodo Baggins, although perhaps not so easily. However, considering Frodo's little performance in the common room, it would have been impossible for a true servant of Sauron not to realize that something was amiss with the hobbit. And if Logan was not a servant of the Dark Lord, well, it was hardly fair to leave him alone in the wilderness, not that he could not have fended for himself, but any passerby would be extremely unlucky.

His instincts told him that Logan was not a threat. After all, he could have easily killed Aragorn and gone to Bree to find the hobbits himself, but he hadn't done that. Perhaps he hadn't known who was going to be carrying _it_, but the black riders and those men from the east had been asking about 'Baggins'. There was no way a servant of Sauron would not know.

"Yeah, well, you can't expect me to know much about fairy tale worlds," muttered Logan, bringing Aragorn back to the present. "I only know the one with the singing teapot and footstool, and that was because the kids insisted on playing it while I was in the living room."

Singing teapots? Why would Logan feel the need to mention singing teapots of all things? Aragorn shook his head. Perhaps he didn't want to know. "I know this is difficult for you," he said as soothingly as he could. 'It's difficult for me as well,' he thought, but he left that out. "Why don't you stay down here and keep an eye on things? I've got a couple of errands to run." If Logan was a good spy, then that would rouse his suspicions, but he said it genially enough and did his best to maintain an expression of naivety_. _

"Still not gonna let me in on that little secret of yours?" grumbled Logan. "You know, I'm not stupid. I can see that you're keepin' something from me." He sat down on one of the rickety wooden chairs. It creaked beneath his weight, but miraculously, it did not break. He had broken many a piece of children's furniture in such a manner. It wasn't his fault, really. He didn't stuff himself with burgers and French fries. Well, he did, but his weight had nothing to do with that. Having a metal enforced skeleton increased one's weight significantly.

Aragorn raised an eyebrow at that. He had expected Logan to confront him, or act calm, instead of sulking like a child who had been left out of a game. Still, servants of the Dark Lord came in many guises. He could only wait and see whether Logan would show his true self or not.

"You'll know in due time," said Strider. From the way he sounded, Logan guessed that the other man was smirking, and he scowled. Then he wondered if Strider was somehow related to Charles Xavier, for like Charles, who had the ability to read minds and play with other people's thoughts, Strider seemed immune to his menacing ways. Before Logan could say anymore, Strider had vanished up the stairs.

With nothing else to do, Logan ordered another beer. After all, one could never have too much beer.

* * *

From across the other side of the now empty and rather dark room, a man sat silent in the shadows, watching everything. A dark beard covered his cheeks, and his eyes gleamed in the dull copper firelight. The ranger and his strange companion had not noticed him, nor had the Halflings. He, too, had a room in the _Prancing Pony_, so the innkeeper wasn't taking much notice of him. Not that the hapless fat man would know anything.

He took another sip from his tankard of ale, careful not to consume too much. This Strider was a difficult one to deal with, and he had to be alert. The drink was only a cover. He had seen and heard everything that had gone on in the common room. He knew as well as any other person that hobbits did not have the ability to disappear into thin air, and the event in the common room could only mean one thing.

He had been right to come to Bree. If he could somehow return the One to his master, then he had no doubt that he would have more wealth and privilege than he would ever be able to use. Perhaps he might even get himself a proper commission.

* * *

The soft sound of bare feet on floorboards caught Logan's attention, and he looked up from his third tankard of beer. Three hobbits, including Underhill-Baggins-whats-his-name, were making their way up the same stairway. Logan frowned. Was Strider trying to burgle them? Curiosity got the better of him. After they had all gone up, Logan got out of his seat and cautiously placed his foot on the first step, trying it out. It didn't creak. Emboldened, he took another step and another. It wasn't long before he could hear soft voices, and then a hobbit's shout of surprise. He stiffened, thinking that he'd been detected, but that wasn't the case, for he soon heard Strider's deep gravelly tones. Ah hah! Strider had been caught red-handed! He listened more carefully. The hobbits did not seem overly alarmed, and Strider was sounding rather civilized.

He could hear the conversation clearly, but it made no sense to him whatsoever. Was Strider asking Underhill-Baggins for permission to stalk him, in exchange for some information? Logan longed to see what was going on; perhaps that would give him some more of an idea. He hated being kept in the dark, figuratively, of course. There were some things which he did not mind doing in places with little light. However, as luck would have it, the very top step groaned loudly as he stepped on it.

* * *

Aragorn stopped talking as soon he heard the groaning of wood. They were not alone. In two strides, he was at the door, and, flinging it open, he seized their would-be attacker. The intruder did not seem pleased with it, and the ranger barely missed being skewered by, not one, but six short knives. That was when he realized that they were not knives, but claws.

"Logan?" he said, hauling the man to his feet. Elbereth, he was heavy! "What are you doing here?" He narrowed his eyes. Was the man spying on them, and if so, then why?

"I was spyin' on you," said Logan, straightening his short leather coat. He seemed to know that the hobbits were alarmed by his appearance, for he did not curl his lip or display any of his threatening behaviours, despite having had to retract his claws. Well, that was probably enough to make the hobbits suspicious of him. "Just wanted to know why you were sneaking into other people's rooms. I thought you were a burglar, or a stalker. Just a note; if you wanna stalk someone, you don't ask them for permission."

"I don't stalk anyone like a wolf, Master Logan," said Aragorn. "I merely track them."

"Who are you?" demanded the one called Frodo Baggins. Aragorn nodded slightly in approval. Good, the hobbit was learning to be more suspicious of strangers.

"The name's Logan," said the strange man. "Logan Howlett. I'm a friend of Strider's."

Well, that would do for now, even if Aragorn did not consider Logan a friend yet. He was more of an accidental acquaintance. Frodo eyed Logan suspiciously, but did not ask any more questions. Instead, he turned his attention back to Aragorn. "You promised to tell me something to my advantage," he said.

"So I did," said Aragorn. He could see the resemblance to Bilbo now. Both were stubborn. These little folk had some hidden strength in them. He laced his fingers together. It was too bad that Logan was here. Otherwise, he would be able to be a little less cryptic in explaining things to the hobbit. "Now, I can remain unseen if I wish, but I cannot disappear into thin air. There are dark things walking abroad, Mr. Baggins, and you should be more careful with that which you carry."

"I don't carry anything," said Frodo Baggins. Aragorn could see the hobbit grow even tenser, and unconsciously, he let his hand stray to his pocket. That did not go unnoticed by the sharp-eyed ranger. Then, as usual, Logan managed to draw all attention to himself.

"I beg to differ," he said smugly, crossing his arms. Aragorn's hand flew to his sword, and it was with a sinking feeling that he remembered it was now in four pieces, courtesy of his new acquaintance. He wouldn't be able to do much with a broken sword against Logan's six sharp claws. He could fight to the death if he wished, but if Logan wanted to take _it_, then it would be rather easy.

'If I survive this,' he thought, 'I am going to get another sword tomorrow.'

"You carry lots of luggage," Logan continued, indicating the packs, pots and pans in the corner. "And why are you all looking at me as if I've grown devil's horns?"

"Pardon me," said the youngest of the hobbits, "but you do have two horns." He made motions with his hands to indicate the peaks of Logan's hair.

* * *

Strider intervened before the discussion about Logan's hair could go any further. "I know what hunts you," he said to Frodo. "Black horsemen have passed through Bree. They know." The atmosphere grew sombre again. Of course, Logan was even more confused now. Who was this mid—hobbit? Why was he being hunted? And by whom? He thought about asking, but he doubted that anyone was going to tell him. If Strider had intended for him to know, then he would have told him long ago.

It seemed that the little hobbit had learned his lesson about suspicion a bit too well, because he was now suspicious about everyone, including the fat barman who had given Logan his tankard of foam. Strider was quick to assure him that the innkeeper was more or less harmless. "He just doesn't like my sort," said Strider with a small grin.

"Why not?" asked Frodo. The ranger narrowed his eyes and raised his eyebrow.

"I do have a roguish look, don't I?" he asked.

"Nah, not that roguish," said Logan, waving his hand in a dismissive manner. "You're Prince Charming compared to what I've seen."

"What have you seen?" asked the youngest hobbit. Curiosity seemed to be one of his weaknesses.

"You really wanna know?" asked Logan, raising an eyebrow. He wondered how the little creature would react if he ever saw Sabretooth, not that there was much of a chance for that; the other mutant had been thrown off the top of the Statue of Liberty by Logan himself.

"No, I really don't," said Strider.

"You both look like rogues to me," said the fat hobbit, crossing his arms. He stood in front of Frodo Baggins and was putting on a rather aggressive stance.

"I know we do," said Strider, "but that is of no import. I hope that you will grow to know me better, and then you must explain to me what happened at the end of your riveting performance."

"It was purely an accident," said Frodo, looking defensive the way Logan did when he had been caught drinking beer in Xavier's school.

"I never said it wasn't an accident," said Strider, "but no matter. It has made your position rather perilous, and I would suggest that you don't tarry in Bree for long. Other, less friendly eyes are watching you." All the lightness was gone from his voice now. The ranger's entire body was tense, as if in pain.

"Why should I trust you?" asked Frodo. "You are naught but a stranger to me. I know nothing of you."

"You won't be able to get away from them without help," said Strider, staring at Frodo intently. "You have no choice but to trust me on this; I know these riders." He closed his eyes, as if reliving a particularly unpleasant memory, and then, shaking his head, he dragged himself back to the present.

"Forgive me if I am not convinced," said Frodo, taking a step backwards. The other hobbits moved closer to him, as if to try and defend him against these two strange men. Logan stared around the tiny little room with its miniature beds and fireplace. He couldn't help Strider to convince the hobbits, mainly because he wasn't quite sure about the other man himself. The mutant was beginning to wonder if Strider was an agent of some medieval secret service. The only reason he was following him was that he really wanted to find a way to get back to New York, and Strider seemed to be knowledgeable about how things worked in this place.

"Very well," said Strider with a sigh. "I do not see how my story can convince you that I am not a foe but a friend. Still, here it is—" He did not get to finish, for there came a knock on the door.

"Mr. Underhill?" said the voice of the fat innkeeper. Strider slipped back into the shadows and seemed to disappear, leaving Logan standing there and looking for a place to hide in the very small room. He glanced at Frodo.

"Do you think you can lend me that thing that made you invisible?" he asked. The hobbit visibly paled and almost stumbled in his haste to get as far away as possible from Logan. His companions stepped in front of him protectively, and the rotund hobbit actually balled his fists. "All right, I was just askin'," said Logan, holding up his hands to show that he meant no harm. "I'll just back off, shall I?"

The innkeeper knocked again. "Mr. Underhill? Is everything well?"

"I'm fine," Frodo called out a little hesitantly. He went over to the door to let the innkeeper inside. Logan quickly stepped behind the door. The last thing he needed was to get arrested because the fat man thought he was holding the hobbits hostage or something like that.

"What was that?" asked the innkeeper. Apparently, Logan had been neither quick nor quiet enough.

"Uh...nothing," said Frodo.

"Oh. Well, I've come to tell you something." The fat man shut the door behind him and then he reeled backwards when he saw Logan standing there. "What are you doing here?" he demanded of the much larger man.

Logan couldn't help himself. "I'm here to rob this gentleman and his friends, then I'm gonna tear them up with my bare hands and roast them over the fire," he said sarcastically. From the way the innkeeper was looking at him, he might as well have been a Martian with three bulbous eyes and pincer jaws.

"Logan," said Strider, stepping out of the shadows with his hand on the hilt of his sword. "That's enough." Logan could not see his face in the dark, but it wasn't hard to tell that Strider was rather hostile.

"He asked," said Logan defensively.

"You...you..." spluttered the innkeeper, pointing at the two of them.

"They're here with my permission," said Frodo, still eyeing Logan warily. "What is it, Mr. Butterbur?"

"It's like this. I was told to look for a hobbit named 'Baggins', you see."

"And?" said Frodo. The hobbit's denial of his own name made Logan feel that there was something ominous about this whole affair. Whatever Frodo was hiding, it must have been very important. Why else would everyone be so secretive? He listened carefully to every word, trying to find more clues which would tell him what was going on.

It seemed that someone named Gandalf, apparently a wizard, had told the innkeeper to look for Frodo as well, and to send him a letter. 'They're all insane,' thought Logan. Did they really believe that the lived in a fairy tale? Butterbur now presented said letter to Frodo, with much embarrassment, for he was meant to have sent it months ago. At the sight of the letter, Frodo seemed much relieved, for a while, at least, until the barman started talking about riders in black and the fact that they were asking about a Baggins.

"I'll go now, and leave you to read the letter," said Butterbur when he had finished talking. Then he bent forward to whisper into Frodo's ear, none too softly. "If I were you, I wouldn't trust a ranger." Logan heard it clearly, and so did Strider, it seemed, for the ranger stepped forward rather menacingly.

"Who would he trust then?" he asked. His voice was dangerously quiet, like the calm before Ororo 'Storm' Munro, a fellow mutant of Logan's who could manipulate the weather, lost her temper, usually at Logan. The Wolverine knowingly took a step backwards. If there was to be an outburst, then at least he wouldn't be in the way. It was not that he couldn't deal with Strider, of course, but it would get rather messy if he did get into an argument with the only person who could get him back to New York. "An innkeeper who only remembers his own name because others shout it at him all day? They can't stay here, and they can't go back. Would _you_ protect them from the black riders, Mr. Butterbur? Would you escort them to somewhere safe?"

"Heavens, no!" said Butterbur, looking rather horrified at the prospect. His ruddy face paled as he thought of leaving his beloved inn behind. "I wouldn't leave the _Prancing Pony_ for anything! But why do you have to leave, Mr. Under—Baggins? Why are the black riders chasing you?"

"I'm afraid I can't explain," said Frodo. "But I fear that these black riders come from...come from..."

"Mordor," said Strider softly. The room seemed to grow cold and silent at the mention of that word. Logan was utterly confused, for those two syllables meant nothing to him, unless these people had an inexplicable fear of a great number of doors.

"Oh, this is the worst news!" said Butterbur. The poor man looked as if he was about to have a heart attack. Logan hoped that someone in this inn knew something about first aid, because he certainly didn't. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Not much," answered Strider. "You must forget the name of Baggins, Butterbur. Mr. Underhill will stay here tonight, and leave in the morning. Please prepare an early breakfast and some travelling provisions."

Butterbur left quickly to do as Strider asked. "Well," said Strider. "Aren't you going to open the letter?" Frodo drew a thin piece of paper from within the creamy envelope. Logan tried to read it, but it was all just meaningless squiggles to him—definitely not English. It didn't look like French either, nor was it Italian. Was it Russian?

'They don't serve vodka downstairs, and there aren't any wizards or 'hobbits' in Russia,' he reminded himself. 'Unless 'hobbit' is the word for midget in Russian.' Then again, none of these people sounded Russian.

"Can someone tell me what is going on now?" asked Logan. "Who's this Gandalf fellow?"

"Gandalf is a friend of ours," said Strider.

"You know, you could have saved a lot of time if you'd told me that you were Gandalf's friend," said Frodo, looking up from the letter.

"Would you have trusted me?" asked Strider. "I didn't know anything about this letter, Frodo. And what if I killed the real Strider and am impersonating him?"

"Did you?" demanded the fat hobbit. He got ready to defend Frodo again, not that his fists would have done anything to Strider. Logan snorted as he pictured the hobbit and the ranger in a boxing ring.

"You are brave, little hobbit, but that will not save you," said Strider, smiling at Frodo's protective companion. "And no, I am not impersonating Strider. If I could kill the real Strider, then killing you would not be a problem. If I wanted Frodo's trinket for myself, then I could take it now." He suddenly drew his sword, much to the alarm of the hobbits. They shrank back, and Frodo's hand flew to his pocket. Strider laughed as he showed them his sword hilt, with just a few inches of blade attached. "This isn't much use, is it?" He slipped the sword back into the scabbard, where the other pieces were. "You don't need to worry, for I am the real Strider. I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and I shall help you in any way I can."

"What the hell?" said Logan. "Why does everyone here have multiple names? Do you work for the CIA or something?" They all looked at him strangely, wondering what he could possibly be talking about. While having more than one name was not common in Middle Earth, no one had heard of anything called the 'see-eye-eh', much less worked for it.

"Do _you_ work for the 'see-eye-eh', Logan?" asked Strider.

"Of course not," snapped the other man. "I'm a teacher, I told you!"

Just then, another hobbit ran into the room, looking extremely flustered and pale. His brown hair was dishevelled, and there were leaves sticking to it.

"Merry!" cried the youngest hobbit. "What took you so long?"

"Black Riders," gasped the newly arrived hobbit. "I saw them."

* * *

"Wait, wait," said Logan, interrupting the latest arrival abruptly in the middle of his account of how he came to see black riders, whatever they were. "They're just freaks on black horses, right? Why are you so scared?"

Aragorn narrowed his eyes at the other man, trying to tell whether Logan was truly as clueless as he seemed, or just a very good actor. The other man didn't seem to be acting, but with a good spy, it was hard to tell; he knew this very well from experience. He also tried to calculate how difficult it would be to extract the daggers hidden in his sleeves should there be such a need. Logan had very good hearing, but his eyesight did not seem to be any better than an average man's. If he was very quiet, then perhaps...

Logan sniffed the air. "It smells in here," he said.

The youngest one, Pippin, sniffed also. "I don't smell anything, except you two," he said to the two men. "Are you sure you're not smelling yourself?"

"It's not me," said Logan. "It stinks of fear."

"You can _smell_ fear?" said Pippin.

"Most things can, except humans," said Logan. "Oh, and hobbits, it seems."

"What are humans?" asked the hobbit. Logan looked at him as if he was mad.

"You've got to be kidding me," he said in disbelief. "You know, human beings...err...um... _Homo erectus _—no, that's one of the monkey men. It was 'homo' something. You tell them, Strider. You seem smart."

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Logan," said Strider. "I believe this is better suited to later discussion. Right now, we must think of how to evade the black riders."

"What do you mean, you have no idea?" demanded Logan. "You're a human being, aren't you?"

"I'm a man," said Aragorn.

"Yeah, and that means you're a male human being!"

"Look, Logan, we really don't have the time to talk about your people's names for different races," said Aragorn. Logan did not sound like one of the Dark Lord's servants. He wanted to believe that Logan was good, but his experiences had taught him not to trust strangers easily, and Logan was still a stranger, as well as a growing mystery. As well as that, he had hinted that he wanted the Ring. Why else would he have asked Frodo if he could borrow 'that thing' which had made Frodo invisible?

"Right, you'd rather talk about freaks on horseback," said Logan. "Go on, don't mind me." He rolled his eyes.

"What do you suggest we do?" asked Frodo of Aragorn. He had ignored Logan completely, ever since the other man had asked him for the Ring, albeit indirectly.

"We change rooms," said Aragorn. "Those men down in the common room tonight, they suspect you, and they know that you're staying in this room. We'll have Butterbur put pillows under the blankets as ruses, and then you go and stay in one of the rooms in the men's quarters on the other side of the inn."

"You're making a lot of effort to avoid some gits who like horses," commented Logan.

"They're not 'gits who like horses'," said Aragorn. Logan was really beginning to irritate him with his completely inappropriate comments. 'Whatever 'gits' are,' he thought. "They're dangerous, Logan. You should not speak of them so lightly."

"Yeah, right," said Logan with a snort. "Don't you worry; if they attack us..." He extended his claws to show just what he was going to do if he met any black riders. The hobbits jerked back in fright.

"You know nothing about them," said Aragorn, "and you should not speak of that which you do not know. You'll only make yourself look ignorant."

"What?" demanded Logan angrily. "I'm not ignorant, you moron! I'm a teacher, and I lived in a school!"

"Just because you were surrounded by wisdom does not mean that you have any yourself," retorted Aragorn. "Now, why don't you go and find Butterbur? I have other things to discuss with Frodo, and I don't need you interrupting me." He more or less shoved Logan out of the door and slammed it shut behind the other man. Logan tried to protest, but he did not use his formidable claws on Aragorn, even if he did make a, presumably, very rude gesture. His reaction actually made the ranger feel a bit more relieved. Surely a servant of the Dark Lord would not behave like that, would he? 'Do not be lulled into a false sense of security,' he told himself. 'He may yet prove you wrong.'

"What do you want to talk to me about?" asked Frodo.

"Our destination," whispered Aragorn. "I intend to take you to Rivendell."

* * *

Logan continued to swear under his breath as he searched out the fat innkeeper. Suddenly, he stopped. His ears twitched. He'd heard a quiet breath. There it was again. He was not alone in the dining area. Someone was following him, and he had a feeling that whoever it was, they did not mean well. 'Focus, Logan,' he told himself. 'They're probably not after you. They're never after you.' If they weren't after him, then who could they be after? Could it be...Baggins-Underhill, or could it be Strider? Either way, it didn't sound too good. "Damn them all," he said out loud, so that his stalker would be able to hear it. "There isn't enough space in that stupid little attic, right? Fine! I'll go get myself a decent room, with a decent sized bed, and you're paying for it, you bloody git! Butterbur! Where'd you get to? Butterbur!"

The innkeeper ran out of the kitchen with a dirty tea-towel flung over his shoulder. His face was red with exertion. "Sir, what do you want, sir?" he asked.

"Get me a nice big room," said Logan, almost growling. Well, he had to put on an act, and he was very good at pretending to be grumpy, mainly because he usually was. "And I want a good breakfast delivered; seventeen rashers of bacon, ten fried eggs, and ten sausages, as well as hot black coffee...you don't have coffee...What do you mean you don't have coffee?!" No acting was required for the last part.

* * *

He left that strange man with the hapless fat innkeeper. It was a waste of time to follow him. It was obvious that Strider's new companion didn't know anything, and wasn't about to accidentally leak information. There was no point anyway. He glanced up the dark stairway which led to the room where Strider and the four Halflings were. The Nine would arrive soon, and come dawn, every person in that room was going to be dead.

And if the Nine did not arrive in time, well, there was always the next day. He just had to make sure that Strider and his new little friends would not leave Bree. The man sneaked out of the inn. Without horses, no one was likely to go anywhere.

* * *

Barliman Butterbur was growing increasingly frustrated at Strider's irritating new companion. The man would not stop yelling about the inn's lack of coffee --was it really so surprising that they didn't have any at the moment because the supplies from the Shire had not arrived?--, and he was being very rude. The innkeeper was about to tell him so when the other man suddenly went quiet. "Forget the coffee," he said. He leaned down and whispered something into Butterbur's ear. The innkeeper frowned, but he nodded anyway, and led the strange man to an empty room in the men's quarters.

"I'll get Nob to do as you asked," said the innkeeper. "And I swear that I won't tell a soul about it. No harm is going to come to that nice Mr. Underhill and his friends while they're under my roof."

* * *

Logan sat down on one of the two beds. The mattress was filled with straw, but it seemed comfortable enough. At least it would be better than lying on muddy ground with pebbles and tree roots sticking into his back. He took off his filthy boots and swung his legs onto the bed before lying down with a sigh. Butterbur would have sent word to Strider and the others by now, and he was expecting them to arrive any moment. Since there were a limited number of beds, he thought he might as well claim one before they all got taken.

Then he remembered his mysterious stalker and sat up immediately. All thoughts of sleep were gone from his mind. It would be best if he went out to make sure that whoever it was, they would not get to know of Strider's plan. Not even bothering to put on his shoes, he went over to the door and pressed his ear against it. Everything was silent. Good. He opened the door and peeked out to make sure that the coast was clear before going downstairs again, just to keep an eye on the doors. Being barefoot made him much stealthier than before.

He caught sight of Strider coming down with the hobbits. The ranger gave him a nod of acknowledgement, and supposedly of thanks. Logan ignored him. After all, Strider had more or less shoved him out of that other room. Then he remembered; the beds. Without so much as a word, he pounded up the stairs and leapt onto his chosen piece of furniture. The wood groaned in protest, but miraculously, the bed remained intact. The others came in moments later.

"Logan, leave the beds for the hobbits," said Strider. "They need their rest."

"_I _need my rest," snapped Logan. "You think I can sleep on mud and stones and tree roots?"

"It's all right, Mr. Strider," said the fat hobbit, who was called Sam. "I can sleep on the floor. I'll be right next to the door, so if anyone tries to come through, they'll have to get past me first." The hobbit was so sincere that Logan felt guilty.

"You take the beds," he said gruffly. "I'm not used to these lumpy mattresses anyway." He levered himself off the exceedingly comfortable mattress and grabbed a blanket off the end of the bed so that there would be at least something between him and the hard, draughty wooden floorboards.

"Get some sleep," Strider said to the hobbits. "I'll keep watch." He settled himself at a chair by the window and pulled out his pipe. The four of them nodded. The one called Merry was still pale from seeing those black riders, and everyone, except Logan, seemed genuinely worried about the fact that the black riders might actually find them.

Logan spread his blanket in front of the door and lay down. "Don't you worry," he said. "I have good hearing, and these." He extended the middle claw on his right hand slowly. "If anyone tries to come in, they'll find more trouble than they bargained for." He turned to Strider. "And you," he said, glaring at the man. "Wake me when you want me to take your place." He was angry at the ranger for being so rude to him, but it wasn't fair to make one man stay up all night just because everyone was suffering from paranoia.

"That won't be necessary," said Strider. "I don't intend on sleeping."

* * *

**A/N: **I wrote this a week ago, and then went on camp. I only just got back today, so I am absolutely exhausted, and might have missed a thing or two. Tell me if I need corrections. You can review, send me a private message, or, if you can't be bothered logging in, you can email me, if you have anything that you feel I need to hear.


	3. Of Dog Food and Bargains

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize.

**Kaisaan:** I'm glad to be able to clear things up. Logan's going to get annoyed at a great number of things in Middle Earth, and we get to sit back and watch the ensuing hilarity. ;)

**R-Cleberg: **I'm glad you're enjoying the story so far. Logan will eventually earn their respect, but first he has to figure out some basics about Middle Earth. It's quite a culture shock for him. He'll begin to make friends soon enough. However, Strider isn't ready to trust him yet, and neither are the hobbits. They don't even know what he really is, let alone who.

Thanks for reviewing, everyone.

**Chapter 3: Of Dog Food and Bargains**

A single candle was the only source of light in the darkened room. The orange flame cast long flickering shadows on the walls and illuminated the silhouette of a man sitting by the window, calmly smoking his pipe. He stared straight ahead of him, deep in thought. In the dim light, the smudges of dirt on his face and clothes could not easily be seen, and if anyone had been watching, they would have been able to see the noblesse which, under the harsher light of day, was so easily hidden.

Aragorn blew out a stream of smoke, contemplating his situation. Occasionally, his thoughts were interrupted by the grunts and sighs of his sleeping companions. That, and Logan was snoring very loudly. If it wasn't for his size, one could easily have mistaken him for a dwarf, from the sound of him.

Suddenly, the other man began talking in his sleep. At first, he mumbled incomprehensibly, but he grew louder. Aragorn wondered if he should go and wake Logan, and then decided against it. In sleep, the man could not lie.

"Jean..." Logan said, thrashing around and getting entangled in his blanket. "Jean...no...NO!" He sat up, with claws brandished and eyes wild. His shouting had woken up everyone in the room, and that did nothing to assure the hobbits that Logan was not a threat. The man did not seem to care. He stared at his surroundings, looking incredibly confused. Then he retracted his claws and rubbed his face with his hands. "Man, I'm sorry," he said. "Go back to sle—" He cut himself off in midsentence, and Aragorn noticed that his ears were twitching.

"Logan?" he began. Logan quickly hushed him.

"I hear hoof beats," he whispered. Out came the claws again. "They're coming this way."

"Stay calm," said Aragorn quietly, knowing that the hobbits were about to panic. They were not suited to such circumstances, having lived all their lives in the peaceful Shire. He pitied them. From the corner of his eye, he could see Sam gripping his master's shoulder tightly to reassure the pale-faced Frodo. The other hobbit's fists were clenched as if he was trying to resist some unnatural urge.

The snort of horses came from outside. Everyone could hear the beasts now. "They're in," said Logan. "And they're heading for our old room. You think they'll fall for the pillow trick?"

"There is no reason why they shouldn't," said Aragorn. He wished he actually believed himself, but he was only saying it to make the hobbits feel a little safer. "Even if they see through it, which I doubt they will, they won't know where we've gone."

"I'd know if I saw pillows instead of people," said Logan. "And then there's that man—"

"What man?" whispered Aragorn. Logan was about to answer, when a loud screech cut through the deathly silence, probably waking everyone in Bree. Logan clapped his hands to his ears immediately, and he looked as if he was in pain. His claws automatically retracted. Within moments, they could all hear the sound of iron-shod hooves hitting cobblestones. The black riders were still screeching, although the sound was growing softer as they rode off. Logan did not uncover his ears until all sound had faded away.

"Jeepers!" he gasped. "What was that?"

"Black riders," said Aragorn.

"I still don't know what they are, but _that_ was not natural," said the other man. He rummaged in his pockets until he found his 'cigar', and he lit it from the embers of the fire. After a he had puffed on it for a while, he seemed to have calmed down a bit.

"What are they really?" asked Merry.

"They were once kings of men; great kings of men," explained Aragorn. He hated that story of how greed had corrupted these noble men and turned them into those things, but that was history, and there was no avoiding it.

* * *

Logan felt a shiver run down his spine as Strider explained about how some guy called Sauron had presented these kings with 'gifts' of nine rings of power, and how these rings had brought about their downfall. "They are now slaves to his will," he finished.

Logan shuddered. "Creepy," he said. "And here I thought that rings were just stupid trinkets." He took another deep pull from his cigar before stubbing it out on his hand again. He needed to conserve his stores, because there was little doubt that he would be in need of something to calm his nerves again, judging from what he had seen so far of this strange place. Pippin visibly winced at the hissing sound as Logan's skin got burnt.

"Wouldn't that hurt?" asked Merry.

"It does," said Logan.

"Then why do you do it?"

Instead of answering, Logan held up his palm to show the hobbits his already healing burn. "I heal," he said simply. There was nothing he liked more than showing off his abilities, no matter how many times others had explained to him that his innate ability to recover at an unnatural pace was not much of a talent to boast about. It was what made him unique. Well, not so unique. He'd met another mutant just like him, until he'd killed her in a most unconventional and unpleasant way, not that there was a pleasant way to kill someone. He was also in the mood to scare someone, because he absolutely loathed waking to a nightmare.

The hobbits were looking at him with mixed expressions of awe and disgust. Pippin looked like he had lots of questions to ask, but was still a bit too wary of this very strange man. Then, as usual, Strider managed to spoil everything.

"I doubt you'll be able to go back to sleep now," he said. "Perhaps we should call for breakfast."

The word 'breakfast' seemed to cheer the younger hobbits immensely. "I ordered lots of bacon and eggs and sausages," said Logan. Fatty food might just make him feel a little better. "This stupid place doesn't have any coffee."

"I never liked coffee much anyway," said Pippin.

"How can you not like coffee?" demanded Logan.

"Gentlemen," said Strider, "we have no time for this, nor will we have time for the bacon and eggs. I think bread and apples will do."

"What about the sausages?" Logan was outraged. What did they think he was? A hamster? He couldn't survive on rabbit food!

"There is no time," repeated Strider. The two glared at each other; neither was willing to back down.

"We can always cook sausages along the way," suggested Pippin. After all, they were going to have second breakfast pretty soon. If they couldn't have bacon and sausages now, they could probably have it then. And he didn't really want to see the two men fight. Strider looked dangerous, and Logan even more so, with his claws and all that. It would be very ugly.

"That's a very good idea," piped up Merry. He just wanted to get as far away from those Black Riders as possible, and this pointless argument about sausages was wasting a lot of time. It wasn't that Merry didn't like sausages —he liked them very much— but compared to the problem of their pursuers, missing a proper breakfast was trivial.

Logan growled deeply, and if looks could kill, Strider would have been reduced to a pile of cinders. Then, finally, he resorted to raising his middle claw at the ranger. Perhaps if he had been able to have his obligatory cup of coffee, he would feel a bit better, but right now, if anyone tried to approach him, he probably could not guarantee that he would leave them in one piece.

Strider seemed to know that he had won this particular argument, and he turned away from Logan. "Sam, go down to the stables and tell the grooms to prepare the ponies," he said to the hobbit. "Logan, you go and find Butterbur and tell him to get our supplies ready. I'll stay here with the others."

"Why don't you go find Butterbur yourself, Robin Hood?" snapped Logan. Who was Strider to order him around as if he was some slave?

"Logan, please, it's important," said Strider. His voice sounded strained, as if he was absolutely exhausted. He probably was, for he hadn't slept at all. If he had been in a better mood, Logan would have pitied him enough not to continue arguing, but this morning, the Wolverine was in a very bad mood.

"Look," he growled. "You're not my commanding officer, and I'm not taking any orders from you, all right? If you want something, you can go get it yourself."

"I'll go," said Merry. He could see that Frodo was getting increasingly uneasy, and his cousin was dealing with enough without having to listen to these two men arguing. Before either Strider or Logan could say anything, he darted out of the door and down the stairs, quickly followed by Sam.

Logan crossed his arms and sat down on the edge of one of the beds. The piece of furniture creaked in protest. All the while, he was cursing inwardly. What had he done to deserve this? It was obvious that Strider didn't want him here. Hell, did the man really think that _he_ wanted to get involved with this too-weird business with freaks on black horses whose screams sounded like the sound of fingernails on a blackboard, only a thousand times louder? Not to mention Logan was getting really sick of everyone's paranoia. And he was very hungry.

* * *

Aragorn considered himself to be a relatively patient man, but he was wondering for how much longer that patience was going to last in the face of someone such as Logan. The man had not stopped glaring at him since he had said that they weren't going to have any breakfast. Would his patience last until they reached Rivendell? He was pulled out of his thoughts by Sam's panicked shout.

"The ponies!" cried the distraught gardener. "The ponies are gone!"

"Why would they be gone?" asked Frodo.

"The grooms said someone stole all the horses at the inn during the night," replied Sam.

"Not to worry," said Frodo, trying to soothe his distressed friend. "We can borrow, well, maybe not borrow, but buy some from the locals."

"Or you could get a taxi," grumbled Logan. No one took any notice of him, mainly because he was in the mood to say inappropriate things, and because no one actually understood what he was talking about. Aragorn was rather relieved that even the curious Pippin had not asked Logan about the 'tack-see', because there was really no time for long-winded convoluted discussions.

* * *

Butterbur knocked on their door a few moments later. The fat innkeeper was completely distraught. No one blamed him. First, he'd had someone attempt to attack guests in his inn, and now his guests' mounts had gone missing. No matter how many times Frodo and Merry tried to reassure him and tell him that they did not blame him, he still refused to stop apologizing.

"I must find you some other mounts," he said. "I insist! Oh, what is the world coming to? Guests cannot sleep in their beds, good pillows and bolsters getting ruined, and now horses disappearing in the dead of the night!" He bowed clumsily to the hobbits and gave Strider a wary look before going out again, doubtless to find beasts to replace the missing ones.

Logan raised his eyebrow. Butterbur needed to get his priorities sorted out. He was lucky that it was pillows that got stabbed and not his guests. Otherwise, his inn would have been the site of a murder, and he would have to deal with the wrath of the local authorities. Wait...did they have policemen here? The mutant decided a while later that it didn't really matter. He was pretty sure that even the FBI or the CIA would not be able to deal this strange world and its inhabitants. For one, they needed modern technology to operate. This place looked like it wouldn't even have telegrams. However, he realized that his thoughts were wandering. Apparently, he also needed to sort out his priorities. Musing on the existence of technology in a place such as this was not one of them.

"Don't worry," he said to the hobbits as he claimed Strider's chair and tried to find a comfortable position. His neck had a crick in it after sleeping on the floor for so long. "I'm pretty sure they'll find more ponies, horses, donkeys—whatever. I mean, this place would have some, right?"

"I wouldn't be so certain of it," said Strider. "Bree does not have many horses. It is a poor town, and horses are expensive."

"More expensive than a Lamborghini?" drawled Logan. "I crashed a couple of those, y'know. Stolen, of course. I would never waste that much cash on a piece of metal." Mistaking the looks on his companions faces for looks of disgust, he hastily added, "before I reformed and became a good citizen, that is."

"What's a lam-bor-gee-nee?" asked Pippin. "Does it have anything to do with lamb?" The hobbit sighed. "I'm so hungry that I'd do anything for roasted lamb shanks right now." Logan didn't bother to tell him that Lamborghinis had nothing whatsoever to do with lamb shanks. It would just be too complicated to try and explain the concept of cars to these people, and as Strider often said, they didn't need such convoluted conversations right now.

'You actually agree with Strider, Logan?' he asked himself. 'You really are too tired.'

Butterbur returned later to tell them that they could only find one pony in all of Bree, or Brie, whatever this place was called, and that the owner would not part with it for anything less than a ridiculous price. Well, Logan didn't really know what a sensible price for a pony was in these parts, but everyone else seemed to think that the owner was asking for far too much. Who was he to argue? After all, the only time he ever gave a damn about horses was when he was betting on one in the races.

"We're going to need that pony to carry our supplies," said Frodo reasonably. The hobbit look worried. "I'm just wondering whether we can afford it. Twelve silver pennies is a lot."

"I think we should go and see it first before we make any decisions," said Strider. Then he frowned, and he seemed to be deep in thought. His brow was furrowed, making him look ten years older. Logan deemed that he was a man who bore many burdens. Why else would he be such a stiff? "It would be best if I did not go," said the ranger after a pause. "Bill Ferny has never liked my kind, and I would prefer it if he did not increase the price."

"I'll go," said Merry. "I know a thing or two about ponies. And Pippin can come with me."

"You need someone else for protection," said Strider. "I don't trust Ferny." All eyes turned to Logan.

"Fine, fine," said the mutant. "I'll go look at the dog food."

"Dog food?" said Pippin. He had no idea how ponies and dog food were related.

"Y'know, old emaciated nags like the one that Butterbur described? In my place, we mince 'em up and use that to feed the dogs," said Logan.

"How awful," declared Merry, who was rather fond of ponies and horses. He couldn't imagine someone turning a horse into mince, even if he did love minced beef in pies.

"I call it convenient," said Logan with a shrug. "Waste not, want not." Noticing the sickened looks on the hobbits faces, he decided that perhaps talking about dog food was not the best idea. He tried to distract them by changing the subject. It usually worked well enough with teenagers, and these hobbits felt like teenagers to him, even if they were aged thirty to fifty, or something like that. "Well," he said, "aren't we gonna go look at the donkey?"

"Pony," corrected Merry.

"Right, pony."

* * *

Butterbur had not been exaggerating when he had spoken of how close to death the pony was. Its owner, Bill Ferny, was a short swarthy man with a flat face and narrow eyes. He sneered when he saw the hobbits. "Well, hello there," he said. "Come to see my pony, have you? I'll not part with him for less than twelve silver pennies, but ole Barliman would have told you that."

Logan took in the sight of the skeletal beast. Its thin dull coat was not nearly enough to hide the scars on its bony body. When Pippin approached it, holding out a hand for the animal to sniff, it snorted and tried to step backwards, with ears laid flat against its head. The pony no longer trusted anything that walked on two legs. He sighed. Surely this old nag was not going to be able to carry any luggage. Heck, he might end up having to carry it. "I'll tell you what," said Logan, forgetting the fact that he was supposed to let the hobbits do the talking and bargaining. "This miserable scrap of meat and leather here ain't worth a single nickel, much less twelve silver pennies. We'll give you five, an' you can take it or leave it."

Bill Ferny sniffed, and tried to look down his flat nose at the very tall mutant, unsuccessfully. "Well, then you keep your five pennies. I ain't parting with my pony for anything less than twelve."

"You'd better hope that dog food has a high price around these parts then, because that's the only thing this nag will be good for," said Logan. He might not know much about horses, but it didn't take an expert to tell that this beast already had two hooves over the threshold to wherever it is that animals went after they died. He banished the memory of spinning a tall tale about 'goldfish heaven' to a three year old one gloomy afternoon in Xavier's school.

Bill Ferny did not look like he was going to change his mind. Logan felt that it was time to use slightly more persuasive arguments. He flexed his fingers and cracked his knuckles, while staring straight down at Bill and curling up his lip in a snarl. The short man glanced at Logan's face, and then down at his hands. His face paled considerably as he wondered how quickly and effectively those hands could break his neck.

Logan saw the change in Ferny's expression. So far, so good. As long as he didn't use his claws, Strider would have no reason to reprimand him. He flexed his fingers again, and curled one hand into a fist. The tendons and veins stood out starkly.

"Seven," blurted out Ferny. "And that's my final offer. Anything else would be exploitation!"

"You actually have the face to say 'exploitation'?" demanded Logan, taking a step forward, all the while cursing the fact that he was not allowed to use his claws. The world would benefit if he could only give the man some scars to remember an important lesson by. He was a teacher, after all.

"Seven will be fine," said Merry quickly. The hobbit could sense that Logan was about to cause trouble, and they didn't need that. He shook out seven silver coins from his leather money pouch and handed the money over to the man. "I presume this includes tack."

Bill Ferny looked at Merry for a brief moment before turning his attention back to the very threatening Logan again. "Yes...yes...of course," he stammered. His worn down tack wasn't worth much anyway. Besides, without this mangy pony, why would he need that tack? Seven pennies wasn't a lot, but it was still a profit. That beast wasn't likely to live out the month.

* * *

Aragorn glanced out the door. Their bags were all packed, and they were waiting impatiently for the others to return, hopefully with a beast of burden. The sound of hooves and gentle coaxing caught his attention. There were Merry and Pippin, gently leading an emaciated pony onwards and trying to calm it down with soothing nonsense. Behind them, Logan was saddled with a peeling saddle and various items which they would need if the pony was the carry anything. Despite his current situation, Aragorn could not help but smile at the comical thought; the man was saddled, instead of the beast. Why didn't he think of using Logan as the baggage-carrier then? 'He would probably run me through with those claws of his if I suggested it,' thought the ranger. Logan was dangerous; he knew that much. Whether he would be a danger to them or their enemies, or both, was another matter. The ranger still wasn't certain about Logan, despite the fact that the other man had shown no signs of working for the enemy. He wished that Gandalf had been able to come and meet him and the hobbits. Gandalf would have known.

"How much was it?" asked Frodo as Merry drew closer.

"Seven silver pennies," said the Brandybuck. "I know it's still a lot, but it's better than twelve."

"Well done on gettin' Bill Ferny to lower his price, Master Brandybuck," said Butterbur. "I know him, and he's one for getting as much profit as he can."

"Actually, Pippin and I didn't do much bargaining," said Merry. "Logan did."

"Logan bargained?" said Aragorn. He saw Logan scowl, and there was no doubt that the other man had been offended by the fact that the ranger had thought him incapable of doing anything else other than cause trouble and drink beer.

"Well, threatened was more like it," said Pippin jovially. "But at least he got old Ferny to lower the price."

"And he didn't draw too much attention to himself," added Merry. "By that, I mean no one suspects that he's not normal." He turned to Logan. "No offence meant."

"Lots taken," said Logan, but he did not proceed to give them a tongue lashing. Perhaps his mood had improved after getting to unleash a little of his annoyance on Ferny.

Butterbur was attempting to give Merry seven silver coins, even though Merry told him that it was not necessary. However, the forgetful fat innkeeper could be extremely stubborn when he wanted to be, and he insisted on paying for the pony himself. "It's the least I can do, sir," he said. "Those ponies went missing under my roof, and I'm responsible."

"It is no fault of yours," said Frodo. "We can't possibly take your money."

"No, no, Mr. Ba—Underhill. Please, just take it. You'll make me feel better about this whole business." With such an argument, how could Merry and Frodo decline? They accepted the money with good grace, and promised that the next time they came to Bree, they would stay a whole week at the _Prancing Pony_. This seemed to satisfy Butterbur.

Sam had gone over to the pony, and was now scratching its forehead, while murmuring quietly into its ear. The skittish creature seemed to have calmed down under the hobbits' gentle touches, and it conceded to stand still while the little gardener inspected him. "The poor thing's been starved," he said to no one in particular. "But he's strong. Kind hands and some juicy grass will fix him soon enough, I gather. You'll be all right in no time, my boy." He patted the pony's neck. "No one's going to hurt you while old Sam's around." The emaciated beast nudged him with his nose, ears flicking back and forth. The hobbit laughed and fished out an apple from his pocket.

"Give him a name, Sam," said Frodo as Sam fed the apple to the pony.

"I think I'll call him Bill," said the gardener. " 'Tis a good name, and he's much worthier of it than that Ferny." He scratched the pony's ear fondly. "Ye hear that, Bill? You've got a name now, and we're going to take care of you."

* * *

Bill soon grew to trust the hobbits, and he seemed to like Strider well enough. However, when Logan tried to approach him, not to befriend him but to put a pack on his back, the pony tried to bite him. Whenever the mutant stepped too close, the pony would bare his blunt yellow teeth.

"Well, I don't like you either, so it's good to know that the feeling's mutual," said Logan, giving the pony a glare. Bill snorted as if in retort.

"Are you done yet, Mr. Logan?" asked Sam. Despite the fact that he didn't trust the mutant, he was always polite, something which made Logan surprised. No one called him 'mister', unless they were making fun of him. However, Sam was entirely serious.

"Almost," replied Logan. "The damn thing won't let me near him."

"You need to talk to Bill nicely," said Sam. He took the last pack from Logan's hands and went straight up to the pony. Bill was docile as the hobbit strapped it to his back. Sam scratched the pony's ears. "You're a good boy, Bill."

"That's it," declared Logan. "I tell you, he's biased against me, although I don't know why." He strode out of the stables, with Sam leading Bill behind him. The others were waiting in the courtyard of the inn. Strider had bought a new sword from the local blacksmith at a rather high price that morning. However, he still carried his old one. There was a bundle wrapped in a blanket under his arm. What was in it, he would not say.

"It took you a while," Strider murmured to the mutant as they set off.

"It wasn't my fault the nag kept on trying to take off my fingers," replied Logan. Strider raised an eyebrow at that, but he did not say anything more.

The streets of Bree were quiet, but the atmosphere was tense. People peered out of windows, but looked away when they saw Strider and his company. They had all heard the screams the night before, and rumours had spread. Something was chasing those four hobbits, and it was best not to get involved.

Only one man was out, and that was Bill Ferny. His smugness had returned, and he was leaning on the fence as if he was watching a parade on the streets. "Well, hello, Longshanks!" he cried. "Found some friends at last, have we?"

Strider said nothing. He seemed to be very good at weathering insults. Logan glared at the man. Ferny flinched a bit, but as there was a fence between him and the tall mutant, it looked as if he felt safe enough to ignore the threatening expression on Logan's face.

"I wouldn't take up with a ranger if I were you, young hobbits," continued Bill the Pony's former master. "They're not trustworthy, those folk. Longshanks here will probably rob and kill you in your slee—" His little monologue was cut off by his own yelp as an apple hit him squarely on his flat nose.

"Nice shot, Sam," said Pippin with much approval. He turned to Strider and Logan. "You big folk might like your swords and knives, but we hobbits, we've got good aim."

"Consider it payment for what he did to my Bill," said the fat hobbit. He rubbed Bill's nose affectionately. "Too bad I had to waste an apple for it."

"Nah, you put that apple to very good use," said Logan. "I would have loved to give him a knuckle sandwich." He cracked his knuckles to show just how much he wanted to do such a thing.

"You think you can knock him out with one punch?" asked Pippin.

" 'Course I can!" said Logan. "What, you think I'm some weak bastard?" The hobbits were taken aback by his language. Merry and Pippin exchanged looks with one another. Even the rudest hobbits didn't talk like that. Was Logan even civilized? Merry shook his head. No, he didn't think so.

* * *

Strider led them into the wilderness using seldom trodden paths. Logan was impressed with the fact that the ranger could even find those tracks, let alone know where they led. Then again, Strider probably had been doing this for a very long time. With the ranger as their guide, the company stayed off the main road, making their journey less conspicuous. Logan kept on listening for those 'black riders'. If there was going to be a fight, then he'd like to be prepared.

The cool breeze blew through the leaves of the trees, sending a few flying down into their faces. Logan batted them away. It was so silent that it wasn't natural. Now, he'd been in a few forests before, and usually, there would be a few birds or a squirrel. There was nothing out here. It was as if everything was hiding.

They steadily made their way up the slope, with Sam coaxing the pony along at the very back. Logan could hear the hobbits' breathing become harsher with the exertion. Even more distracting was the sound of growling hobbit bellies. Actually, that could have been his own stomach complaining about its emptiness. When was this 'second breakfast' supposed to take place? He was certain that they could all do with some fried sausages.

* * *

Unnoticed by the two men and the Halflings, he had followed them into the woods, taking care to remain silent. He had to keep quite some distance away, as he knew that this ranger and his companion had sharp hearing. From such a distance, it was impossible to hear what the Halflings and the men were talking about, if they were discussing anything at all. However, from their stance, he could see that the Halflings were beginning to get tired. After all, they never got a good night's rest.

He smiled. The Master would soon have his prize. With the Nine on their tail, this ragtag bunch would not be able to keep the One hidden for long.

* * *

**A/N: **At last, they're out of Bree! I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Advice and suggestions are welcome.


	4. Breakfast and Ambushes

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize. Neither LotR nor X-Men belong to me. I'm just borrowing things, as usual.

**Kaisaan:** Logan and the Ringwraiths will be a very interesting combination. Not for the first time, our dear Wolverine will discover that there are things which he can't scratch with his claws.

Thank you all for reviewing. I appreciate your comments and advice. :)

**Chapter 4: Breakfast and Ambushes**

The southerners found him. He had expected no less of them; after all, he had carved subtle but clear marks for them on the bark of the trees. They surrounded him, suspicious, and more than a little hostile. He was not intimidated by this outward show of strength. After all, he had been trained by agents of the Dark Lord. If he had wanted to, he could have killed them all, he was certain. Right now, however, they were useful. These men did not understand the great events that were about to unfold. All they cared about was profit. That was something that he could give them.

"Where did you get to, Marikh?" their spokesman asked of him. He was the one who had confronted the ranger and his prickly companion. Patience had never been his virtue, but he had been useful in testing the ranger's quality.

Marikh, mercenary from Harad, did not reply, but simply smiled. There was no need for him to tell the southerners what he had been doing exactly, and what he was after. He leaned against one of the trees.

"Why did you take our horses?" demanded one of the other southerners.

"My friend, if you were the only people in Bree left with horses, the suspicion would fall on you," replied Marikh. "You will get them back once this is over."

"You hid them?" demanded the spokesman.

"Of course," said Marikh. "I am no thief, whatever they may say." He glanced up at the sky. It was getting late. If he did not resume tracking, he would lose that Strider and his company. "You must follow me at a distance. I will leave markings for you. When the time is right, you will hear my signal."

"It's a big fish?" asked the spokesman.

"It is a very big fish," replied Marikh. "Bigger than you can imagine."

* * *

The sun rose higher into the sky. Logan didn't have his watch with him, but he deemed that it was late morning. Wasn't it time for the hobbits' second breakfast yet? He was looking forward to the meal as much as they were, it seemed. His stomach growled continuously, and he felt as if there was a thunderstorm in his belly. However, Strider did not give any indication that he was going to let them rest anytime soon.

On the other hand, the hobbits didn't seem to agree with the ranger. They had all stopped, and Merry and Pippin were getting out pots and pans. Upon hearing the racket, Strider stopped in his tracks. "What are you doing?" he asked. "We cannot stop yet. There is a long journey ahead of us and we cannot afford to tarry."

"But we've got to have breakfast," said Pippin. Logan could not have agreed more.

"You've already had it," said Strider, who had apparently forgotten about all the meals which the hobbits had been talking about.

"We've had first breakfast," explained Merry, "but now it's time for second breakfast."

Logan got ready to join them. A little break wouldn't do any harm, surely. He went over to see what he could do to speed up the process of cooking the meal. Strider simply shook his head and walked on. Moments later, something hurtled towards the hobbits and Logan. The mutant whipped around and immediately extended his claws, getting ready to block the projectile and to defend the hobbits. That was how an apple ended up skewered on his claws. The juice ran down the lengths of the pieces of metal and onto his fingers.

"What's that for?" he demanded as he pulled the apple off his claws and flung it away. Bill the Pony turned to where the apple landed and stretched out his neck. Unfortunately, his neck wasn't long enough.

"Breakfast," came Strider's reply. He was already out of sight, hidden by some vegetation.

"More apples? I'm not Bugs Bunny! No, scrap that. Bugs Bunny eats carrots. Strider, if you think I can live on the same diet as the pony, then you'd better think again, because I ain't got a mane and a tail."

Merry listened to Logan's monologue with much confusion as he packed away the pots, much to Pippin's consternation. "What do you think you're doing?" hissed the Took.

"Strider doesn't seem to know about second breakfast, and if we don't hurry, we're going to lose him," replied Merry reasonably. Pulling out a hunk of bread and another apple from one of the packs, he handed the two items to Pippin and patted his cousin's shoulder in a comforting manner. That did nothing to soothe the distraught Pippin. In his eyes, there was nothing so bad as missing a meal.

"What about elevenses? Luncheon? Afternoon tea? Dinner? Supper? He knows about them, doesn't he?"

"I don't know, Pippin, but you'd best be prepared for the worst." He took out another apple for himself. After considering offering something to Logan, he decided against it. That strange man was still muttering darkly to himself about rabbit food and dog food, even if he did look as if he was going to follow Strider's example and continue the journey.

At the back of the spread out column, Sam was trying to persuade Frodo to eat a huge hunk of cheese. "You have to keep up your strength, Mr. Frodo," he insisted. "And you've already missed out on one proper breakfast."

"I assure you that I am perfectly fine, Sam," said Frodo. "We should conserve our supplies. Who knows how long this journey is going to last?" He broke a corner off the block of cheese and then handed the rest back to Sam. "Now, you keep that safe. There are a lot of mouths which need feeding."

The smell of cheese wafting on the air was too much to bear. It made his mouth water and reminded him just how hungry he was. Heck, perhaps he could even identify with those starving masses in Africa, and Logan had never been one who cared much about the world outside of his immediate circle in Xavier's school. After all, number one needed taking care of. How could he help someone else if he was in need of help himself? He stopped in his tracks and doubled back to where Sam and Frodo were. The little gardener instinctively placed himself between the tall mutant and his master. "What do you want?" he demanded.

"Hey, you don't have to get so aggressive," said Logan. "I just want some cheese."

Frodo raised an eyebrow. That was not the answer he'd been expecting. However, it was a much better answer. Sam held out the block of cheese to the man, who extended one claw and neatly sliced off a generous portion. "Thanks," he said before walking off, no doubt to pester Strider again.

"He's one strange man, that Logan," said Sam as he wrapped up the cheese and stowed it back in the pack. "I don't trust either him or that Strider fellow."

"I think a servant of the enemy would feel fouler," said Frodo. "And Strider is a friend of Gandalf's."

"Well, we can't prove that, can we?" said Sam. "He could have killed Gandalf's friend, found out about him, and then pretended to be him. Who knows where he's really leading us?"

"We have to trust him, Sam," said Frodo. "If he is indeed a friend of Gandalf's then he'll know what to do. So far, he has given me no cause to doubt him." With that, the hobbit trudged on, trying his best to catch up with his lively cousins and his two long-legged guides.

* * *

Truth be told, Logan had spent many night in the wilderness, but never before had he seen so many stars. And they were strange constellations too, which did not help much with his orientation. The tiny campfire which Strider had grudgingly allowed them to build was now nothing more than glowing embers. The ranger was smoking again, as were some of the hobbits. Logan would have joined them, but he only had two and a half cigars left. Since nothing too shocking had happened to him this day, he decided to keep them for when he did have need of something to calm him down.

"Hey, Frodo," said Pippin suddenly. "Can you tell us a story?"

"A story?" said Frodo. "Pippin, you've heard all of mine."

"We don't mind if you tell one that we've heard before, Mr. Frodo," said Sam. "I've always liked listening to your stories."

"All the same, I don't think I'll be very good at telling stories tonight," said Frodo. He had had enough experience with story-telling to know that if he told one, they would pester him for another and another. Right now, he needed his rest.

"What about you two, Logan and Strider?" asked Pippin, seeing that Frodo was not about to be persuaded. "Can you tell stories?"

"Pippin," chided Merry softly. "It's not nice to demand that people tell you stories." His young cousin duly ignored him.

Logan gaped at the hobbit, all the while thinking of stories which did not involve exploding helicopters and sexy half-dressed women. He had none. But how did one refuse that look which Pippin was now giving him? 'You're a pathetic old softie, Logan,' he scolded himself. However, Strider came to his rescue before he needed to say anything.

"I shall tell you a tale," said the ranger, "but only one." With that, he began to recite some long ballad about a mortal man who fell with an immortal elf-maiden. That confused Logan greatly, because if he remembered correctly, elves were tiny little creatures with pointy ears, pointy hats and pointy shoes, and they helped Santa Claus to organize presents during Christmas. Wouldn't the height difference be enough of a problem?

'Maybe Beren was a short man,' he reasoned. Everyone else seemed to be following the story just fine, so he was not about to say anything, in case it made him look ignorant. The Wolverine could not stand to have his pride dented. He soon became bored and his thoughts began to drift. It was rather cool out here, but very peaceful, he supposed. Of course, Logan would be more comfortable in the nightclubs in Vegas. That was just the way he was. He liked the dangerous naughty nightlife. Storm usually gave him hell about his bad habits, but just because he was reformed and a teacher did not mean he could change his whole character.

Then he heard a rustle far away, and he was instantly alert again. He got to his feet, listening intently. Strider stopped reciting poetry. "No, no," hissed Logan. "Continue." From his experience in the army, it was best not to let the enemy know that they had been detected.

Strider nodded, understanding what was going on inside Logan's head. He continued his tale, even though his heart was now not in it. His voice was softer, for he didn't want to distract Logan. He also wanted to be able to hear if there were enemies about. The hobbits, too, had grown nervous, and were no longer listening to the story. They glanced at each other, at Strider, at Logan.

"Pretend there's nothing going on," said Strider, not changing the tone of his voice. "By my life or death, I will keep you safe." His hand slowly moved to the hilt of his sword and stayed there.

Logan had slowly extended the claws of one hand so as to not draw attention to the motion. His ears continued to twitch. Every now and then, he would sniff the air, as if he was an animal trying to locate where its predator was. Actually, that was exactly what he was doing.

Now, Aragorn had seen a lot of things in his life, but this was definitely the first time that he had witnessed such strange behaviour from something that was not a dog or a deer. Gollum did not really count. However, there was no time to be fascinated or disgusted.

Somewhere amongst the dark trees, an owl called.

* * *

Marikh cupped his hands around his mouth and made yet another sound which resembled the call of an owl. From the distance, another call answered his own. The southerners had heard him. Good. So far, the ranger and his companions did not seem suspicious, but it was really too dark to see very clearly. Strider's odd companion was displaying some strange behaviour, but that seemed to be normal for him, so Marikh didn't take any notice of it.

No matter how good the ranger was, he would be no match for the ambush which the mercenary had arranged. In his homeland, the elders often told the tale of how a mumak was once overwhelmed by an army of ants.

* * *

"They're moving towards us and encircling us," Logan murmured. He listened intently. There was no mistaking the sounds of human feet on the ground. Their would-be attackers were trying to be quiet, but they did not know that they were dealing with the Wolverine. They would soon learn of their mistake. "Are those the black rider thingies?"

"Definitely not," replied Strider. "Black riders would not need to plan an ambush." He calmly unwrapped the cloth bundle which he had been carrying. "I'd hoped to give you these later," he said to the increasingly nervous hobbits. The cloth fell away to reveal four long daggers, or short swords. "I'd thought that you might need these." The hobbits glanced up at him, uncertain of what to do. They were no soldiers, and the thought of killing a man sickened them. Frodo was the first to make a move. Tentatively, he took one of the swords and slid it out of its sheath. The metal blade gleamed dully in the dying firelight. He pressed his lips together in determination.

The other hobbits took their weapons. Of all of them, Merry seemed to hold a sword with most certainty.

"I'm not Bandobras the Bullroarer," said Pippin in a very small voice.

"Oh, come on, Pippin," said Merry in the most encouraging tone he could muster. "You are a Took, aren't you? He's your ancestor." Poor Pippin did not look any more emboldened.

Logan and Strider did their best to keep the hobbits between them. "Form a circle," said Logan. "And watch my back."

The defenders waited. Their ambushers seemed willing to wait as well. Tense silence prevailed, broken only by the faint calm whisper of the night breezes.

Then the men leapt out from the dark cover of the trees surrounding them. It was hard to tell how many there were, for they were all making a lot of noise. Logan replied with his own distinctive roar. What was battle without battle cries? He might not have been able to see, but it was not hard to hear what exactly his enemies were doing. The claws of the other hand came out, just in time to skewer someone who would have otherwise skewered him. Hot liquid splashed onto him. This felt very familiar. It was good to see that some things did not change, no matter where he happened to be.

* * *

As Aragorn ducked one blow and parried another, he was very glad that he was fighting _with_ Logan instead of against him. He had known that the other man was dangerous, but his lethalness beggared belief. There was such unnatural strength in him, and such speed, even if grace was sorely lacking. And he was almost animalistic in the way he dispensed death. This was not the Logan who had grudgingly relinquished the bed to the hobbits and offered to keep watch.

'This is probably what Logan's like if he misses both breakfast and lunch,' he thought wryly. It was probably a fitting description. The man did not seem to fear death. He was also extremely careless. Aragorn was about to shout out a warning, for someone was sneaking up behind Logan. However, he became occupied with saving his own life.

A sword cut deeply into Logan's side, causing him to cry out in anger and pain. The wound did not even slow him down. The claws flashed, and the sword was in pieces. The unfortunate fool who'd thought that attacking Logan from behind would be easy was now lacking an arm. Dark blood spurted from the stump, in time with the man's heartbeat. Even in the dim light, it was possible to see the pale whiteness of bone protruding from his shoulder.

Not bothering to take any notice of either his wound or the crippled man, Logan whirled around to face three more assailants, who were now hesitating. He growled low down in his throat. One of them stepped forward. Big mistake. The man leapt at them, claws extended before him, and plunged the six sharp lengths of metal into the chests of two of the men. The hunters had now become the hunted, and they were facing one of the most terrifying predators they had ever met.

"Logan, the hobbits!" shouted Aragorn. He needed to remind Logan of what was important before the other man got too carried away with his murderous rampage. With him struggling to fend off four men at once, it was very difficult for him to defend his charges. Somehow, the men had forced him further and further away from the four hobbits. It had been a trap, he now realized, and he had fallen straight into it. Staying up the whole night and walking the whole day had taken their toll on his mind and body. He tried to fight his way back to the hobbits' side. He had promised he would protect them, and Aragorn, son of Arathorn, was one who kept his promises. Only it seemed that right now, he would be forced to break them.

Logan heard Aragorn's shout. Abandoning his prey, he slashed his way over to the hobbits. His blood covered figure loomed over them. "You all right?" he asked gruffly. Frodo nodded mutely, while Pippin just gave a small squeak. He might have been trying to say 'yes' or 'no'. It was hard to tell.

"Are _you_ all right?" Merry managed to say. He had seen Logan take that wound.

"Never been better," growled the tall man. There was a wild gleam in his eye which made him look like a madman. Merry felt the urge to shrink away. So did their attackers, it seemed, for they hesitated. Their leader, a tall man who'd covered his face, was staring intently at the hobbits with narrowed eyes, as if he was thinking of a way to get past Logan.

"What are you waiting for?" snarled Logan. "Bring it on!"

They didn't.

* * *

Marikh cursed the incompetence of the southerners. He cursed his own stupidity for having underestimated his enemy. Most of all, he cursed that over-competent ranger and his very dangerous friend of the six knives. The mercenary for Harad might have been eager to gain the Dark Lord's favour, but he also had a sense of self-preservation. There would be other chances later. Right now, it would probably be best to leave this miserable bunch of beings to the Nine.

He turned and vanished into the night. The man of the six knives made to pursue him, but he heard Strider call him back. That was a small blessing, at least. The darkness hid him, and soon enough, he was lost to them.

'Just wait,' he thought. 'You will succumb.'

* * *

Daylight found the small bedraggled group exactly where they had been the night before. The fire was now nothing but scattered coals and ash. The hobbits were huddled together, still looking around warily.

Strider flipped over one of the bodies. "Southerners," he said. "The enemy is tracking us."

"I knew that," muttered Logan. Mentally, he chided himself for worrying about missing breakfast when there had obviously been something bigger going on. He should have let the others know about that man who'd spied on him that night at the inn. Then he shrugged. No point in crying over spilt milk. Anyway, most of their enemies seemed to be dead, courtesy of him and Strider. The Wolverine was not that complicated. He usually only cared about what he could see. Occasionally, he would get revelations, but that was seldom.

"What?" said Strider sharply.

"That we were being followed," said Logan. "Hey, it's no big deal. They're all dead, aren't they?"

"You knew and you didn't tell me?" said the ranger, looking absolutely furious.

"So I'm sorry, all right?" said Logan. "Geez, you don't have to fry me. I was worrying about breakfast, or rather, the lack thereof."

"We'll make a hobbit of him yet," Pippin whispered to Merry. The mention of breakfast had purged all thoughts of last night from his mind. Well, maybe not purged, but the attack was no longer Pippin's priority. It was over and done with, and he was hungry. It didn't matter if they were in danger or not; they still had to eat, didn't they? He glanced at his fellow hobbits. Frodo was utterly silent, and Sam looked ill.

Logan kicked one of the corpses. "The leader escaped, though I doubt he'll come back soon," he said. "Bah, if he does, I'll make him pay. One of his men ruined my favourite leather jacket." Heck, it was probably the only leather jacket he had left, considering he still had no way to get back to New York.

"What about the injury?" asked Strider.

"What about it?" said Logan. Cigar time, or not?

"Is it bad?"

"It's nothin'." Strider did not seem to like that answer, for he scowled at Logan.

"Let me see it," he said. "Turn around,"

"I told you, it's nothing!" said Logan. He hated it when people fussed about him. It was incredibly embarrassing. "Look, you saw my burns! You know what happens."

"Logan, that wound is not like one of your burns," said the ranger. "If left untended, it will turn gangrenous, and you could die."

Logan snorted. Yeah, like that was going to happen. He'd been in two world wars, and even though his memories of them were still vague, thanks to his recent bout of amnesia, he was pretty sure he'd survived some pretty nasty wounds. This was nothing compared to everything else that he'd been through. He said so. And, of course, Strider didn't believe him. In the end, he'd had to concede to that stubborn ranger and remove his jacket and torn t-shirt.

There was a gasp. "There's nothing," whispered Strider. And there wasn't, not even a scar. He could not believe what he was seeing. If not for tears in Logan's clothes, he would have thought that Logan had not taken the wound at all. It was a miracle, or just a very strange phenomenon at the very least.

"Look at all that hair!" said Pippin. "If that's his chest, then I wonder what his feet look like."

* * *

If Logan had thought that the previous leg of the journey was bad, then this was absolute hell. For one reason or another, Strider had decided that going through a marsh would be the best route. No one else agreed, but he was leading them. Without him, they would be completely lost, so they had no other choice but to follow, even if they did not do so without complaints.

Obviously, Logan was the loudest. "Look, I know what paths look like," he said, "and this is not one!"

"It is indeed a path less trodden," said Strider as he waded through the rancid mud, "but it is the safest one."

"Pardon me, but I don't think that drowning in mud is very safe at all." The Wolverine's mood was at an all time low. The mud had leaked into his boots, there were insects biting him, and he was freezing. Canadian or not, he did not appreciate staying wet all day long in winter, especially in the outdoors. He slapped one of those annoying flying pests which had landed on his face and proceeded to make a meal out of him. "You'd better have a good reason for making us go through this."

Strider sighed. "I do," he said simply. "By going through the marshes, we are making it difficult for our enemies to track us. Logan, by all means, shout a little bit louder. I don't think Gondor has heard you yet."

"Condors live in dryer climates," said Logan. "This isn't exactly California. You know, I am a teacher, and I have been a sub for Biology a few times in my life. I can learn by osmosis." That got absolutely no response from his companions, except for a few odd glances. He sighed. Perhaps they didn't know about condors, Biology or osmosis. And they didn't know about California. They were all deprived. He tried again. "Can you at least tell me how to keep these things off me?" He slapped another midge, leaving a smear of blood on his skin as the insect's engorged body burst.

Strider picked a couple of leaves from a nearby plant. "Ails and cures often grow side by side," he said. "Crush these leaves, mix that with urine and apply it to your skin. That should keep the midges away." What he didn't say was that it would also keep everything else away.

"You want me to put piss on myself?" said Logan. "No thanks. I think I'll stick with the bugs."

* * *

It was with great relief that they staggered out of the marshes. Logan attempted to shake the mud off his boots, with no success. He'd have to wait until Strider would actually let them stop.

"I stink," said Pippin, sniffing his sleeve.

"So do the rest of us," said Merry. "You don't hear us telling the world, do you?"

"Hey, I'm just saying it," said the younger hobbit. "There's no harm in being honest."

"Being loud and honest is another matter," Frodo informed him. It seemed that everyone's mood had improved now that they no longer had to wade through mud from sunrise to sundown. Frodo tightened his belt. "I've become so thin," he said. "If I lose any more weight, I think I'll become a wraith."

"Do not say that," said Strider sharply. "Not even in jest."

"Geez, man, don't you have a sense of humour?" asked Logan. Why did Strider always have to be so serious? If the hobbits were happy and wanted to joke, then why not let them?

"There is nothing humorous about becoming a wraith," said Strider. "And you should hope that you never see something like that happen."

"Seeing it is one thing," retorted Logan. "Joking about it is another, or are you superstitious and believe in this whole thing about attracting bad luck?"

"I'd rather not take any risks," said Strider.

* * *

The terrain became hilly once they left the marsh. The grass was yellowed and coarse. There were tussocks growing here and there, and rocks jutted out of the ground like the teeth of long dead giants. Ever since arriving here, Logan had seen so many strange things that he was prepared to believe that there were giants in this place called 'Middle Earth'. It was like he'd stepped into one of those novels by that Frenchman...what was his name? Julius...Jules Verne. That's it. 'I can't believe the literature lessons are coming back to me,' he thought. There was definitely something wrong with him.

He concentrated on trudging on. The hobbits were tired; it wasn't hard to tell, but they were bravely trying to hide it. The mutant admired their stoic strength, and their ability to find joy in the smallest of things. Humans were never so content and happy. It was a state of being which they all aspired to, but never really reached. In that way, they were like children, really, even if they were supposedly thirty or forty or whatever.

Above them, the sky was completely overcast. Grey clouds floated, threatening rain and worse. Logan was used to cold climates, but he didn't appreciate snowstorms in the wild.

"It looks like winter is really coming," Pippin said to no one in particular. He'd crossed his arms to try to conserve heat. The hobbit sighed. "I wish I was back in Tuckborough. My ma would be stewing apples and backing apple pies, oh, and making the best jams too. I'd give anything for bread fresh out of the oven with golden dripping butter and some of my ma's jam."

"Stop making me hungry," groaned Merry. The fact that they'd had nothing but dried meat and stale bread for the last few days made it even worse. It had been impossible to find enough firewood in the marshes, and right now, Strider wasn't really keen on them stopping for long or building an attention-catching fire in the night.

"I want donuts," mused Logan. "Donuts, pizza, and beer."

"Beer I know," said Pippin, "but what are 'dough-nuts' and 'peet-sa'?"

"Donuts are..." Logan searched through his vocabulary for the right words to describe donuts. "They're round sticky pastries made out of dough, covered in sugar, and sometimes cinnamon. Otherwise, they've got icing on them. They've got holes in the middle—"

"Ooh, stop," said Merry. "You're making it worse!"

"So what's 'peet-sa' then?" asked the ever-persistent Pippin.

"Pizza is this...piece of flat...scone, with melted cheese, sausage, tomato, bacon, ham—basically anything you can think of— on top," said Logan, hoping that his description was adequate enough for Pippin, but not so good that it was going to make Merry feel even worse.

"Your people have interesting food, Mr. Logan," said Sam thoughtfully. He'd like to try that scone-thing. It sounded tasty, and easy to make. It might be something that he could cook for them, if he had flour, and if Strider would actually let them light a fire. Of course, he didn't have an oven, but he could always improvise and use his pans.

"And we're going to make him cook for us sometime," said Frodo, who'd guessed Sam's thoughts.

Logan raised an eyebrow. Him? Cooking? Now that was a novel thought. The only thing he'd ever been good at doing when it came to the kitchen was microwaving leftover food or the frozen type in packets which tasted revolting. The enthusiastic hobbits were going to get a nasty surprise.

* * *

Mist cloaked the earth. The newly dawned day brought no cheer with it. Worst of all, Strider had refused to let them cook breakfast, saying that it would take too long, as usual. "I want to reach the watchtower of Amon Sul by nightfall," he said to them. "And there is still some distance to go yet."

"No wonder he's called Strider," muttered Logan as he rolled up the blankets. "He's always striding and striding and striding all over the place."

"And does 'Logan' mean 'to grumble' in any language, by any chance?" asked Strider. "You're not being subtle, you know, and I'm not deaf."

"Well, are you listening to me then?" said Logan. He gnawed on a hunk of hard bread which was supposed to be breakfast, thinking that this would be perfect fare for a baby who was teething.

"Just because I hear the wind doesn't mean I'm listening to it," said Strider.

"And I'm surprised that you actually have a sense of humour, even if it is twisted beyond recognition. I think you think it's funny to watch me grumble because I've not had any decent food for days."

"Logan, I like my meals as much as you do yours. We just don't happen to have the time for it. As I've said before, I want to reach Amon Sul at nightfall."

* * *

Amon Sul had probably been a great structure once, surpassing even the Colosseum or l'Arc de Triomphe. However, all its glory had been stripped away by time and the weather. All that was left now was its foundations, sticking out of the bleak landscape like a crown of jagged stone. "The crown of the fallen giant king," mused Logan quietly to himself. If he ever got back to New York, the kids would love hearing about the great Wolverine's adventures in fairy land, or whatever this place full of unpronounceable names was. The sun was setting behind them. It was the first time that day that they'd actually seen it. Now, it cast faint golden rays across the clouds, staining them in delicate hues of orange and pink. Combined with his rumbling belly, this all reminded Logan of cold winter nights spent huddled in front of the television with mulled cider and half a dozen iced donuts, watching some infernal cartoon with the kids. Well, actually, he'd watched the kids to make sure that they didn't bloody each others' noses.

They made camp on the foundations of the old watchtower. The blustery wind whistled as it blew through some of the smaller gaps. Sam wrapped a blanket firmly around Frodo's shoulders. "Now, you stay here and rest, Mr. Frodo," the little gardener told the other hobbit. "I ain't going to let you catch your death of cold. Strider's said that we can make hot dinner tonight, and I plan to take advantage of his good mood. You just sit, and I'll bring you a lovely plate of stew soon."

"Sam," protested Frodo. "I'm all right. I can help." However, his servant would tolerate no argument, so the only thing he could do was sit on a blanket and watch everyone prepare for the night. Merry and Pippin had run off in search of water, and Strider was scouting the area. Apparently, he now trusted Logan enough to leave him alone.

Sam found the man very useful for little tasks, such as fetching firewood and lighting the fire. However, he was wise enough not to ask Logan to brush down Bill. None of the hobbits relished the thought of pony stew that night, even if Logan had said that Bill was only good for dog food. If he was angry enough, Sam had no doubt that Strider's even stranger friend would have no qualms about trying out this new dish.

* * *

Aragorn was very relieved to have discovered no signs of the enemy so far. "There's nothing out there, yet," he said, sitting down on one of the spread out blankets and stretching his long legs out before him. "You will tell me if you hear anything, won't you, Logan?"

"Sure," said the man as he repeatedly struck two pieces of flint together, trying to get the spark to land on the wood shavings which sat in a pile at his feet. So far, he wasn't having much success. Sam was a very efficient taskmaster indeed. The ranger wondered how the hobbit could make Logan do chores when it was so difficult of him even to ask a favour of the strange gruff man. "Do you wanna know that Merry and Pippin are runnin' this way, sounding panicked?" Aragorn raised an eyebrow at that. Unfortunately, he'd never mastered the technique of making men cower before him by just using his eyebrows, they way Lord Elrond could. Moments later said hobbits charged into the camp, almost tripping over Strider's legs in their haste.

"Steady on!" said Frodo, leaping out of the way just in time. Merry landed in a heap where he had been sitting before. "What's going on?"

"Strider...you've got to come...see this..." gasped Pippin. "There were footprints...and ashes..." The ranger was on his feet before the breathless hobbit could say anything else.

"Show me," he said. Merry scrambled back up and hurried to lead the way. Sam was clutching his skillet tightly, as if that could somehow protect him and his beloved master from the unearthly dangers which lurked in this place. Frodo placed a hand on Sam's shoulder and gave it a squeeze before going over to join Merry and Aragorn.

"I want to come too," he said. Aragorn nodded, but said nothing. It was probably for the best. He would feel better if he could keep an eye on Frodo Baggins and make sure that nothing too bad happened to him.

"And I want to come with you, Mr. Frodo," said Sam, even though he looked rather pale in the dying daylight.

"No, Sam," said Frodo. "You stay here and guard the camp and the luggage. I want dinner when we get back." That placated the gardener somewhat, but he still looked very uncomfortable about letting his master go off with that suspicious ranger, even if he had already saved them once. Aragorn could not blame him. The rumours about the rangers were not exactly kind.

Frodo then turned to Pippin. "Peregrin Took, you will stay behind too, and help Sam, do you hear me?" The youngest hobbit nodded meekly, secretly glad that he would not have to be exposed to too much potential danger. He liked adventures, but only the sort which did not result in death and injury. So far, getting chased by the black riders had not been any fun at all.

Logan made to follow Aragorn, but the ranger made him stay behind. "If anything attacks while I'm gone, then at least you'll be here," he said. And he knew that Logan was more than just an efficient warrior. Nothing with any sense of self-preservation would dare to attack him.

"You trust me?" said Logan. "How do you know that I'm not working for this enemy of yours?" Aragorn was more than just alarmed. He'd underestimated Logan, for he'd thought that the man had not suspected anything. Then again, the hints which he had accidentally —or purposefully— dropped had not been that subtle. He made himself calm down. After all, if Logan was an agent of the enemy, he would not be asking such a question, would he? Then again, perhaps it would be better to test the man's loyalty.

"I don't," he said bluntly. "But I will trust you, Logan, because I want to." As he spoke, he realized that every word which he had uttered was absolutely true. It surprised him, actually, because he had no reason to want this strange and uncouth man for a friend and comrade. Eru certainly worked in very strange ways.

* * *

**A/N:** I hope you enjoyed this chapter and that it didn't bore you. I'm just slowly moving this along, because I want to savour the novelty of Middle Earth anew, and also to fully examine the way Logan feels about this place, as well as seeing how Aragorn feels about this strange guy. :P Yeah, I'm strange like that. Anyway, no matter whether you liked this or not, I'd be grateful if you could drop me a line and give me advice and suggestions. I consider everything that my readers tell me.


	5. Wonders on Two Legs

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own anything that you recognize. I'm just borrowing them for this little escapade.

**Kaisaan: **Yep, the friendships are slowly forming. It will be a while before they are actually friends, but at least they're making progress.

**Christy: **Wow, you're thirty? Rude language aside, let me just say that your English language skills are dismal for someone who would have supposedly gone through elementary school. May I suggest using spell-check and capital letters at the beginnings of sentences? That would give the impression that you passed elementary school, and that you have read enough literature to be a credible critic.

As for Wolverine, comic-wise, he would be extremely OOC. However, I'm using the X-Men movies for a basis.

**Chapter 5: Wonders on Two Legs**

The fire was finally going, after Pippin had stepped in to help. Logan stared into the flames, pondering his own situation. So Strider had somehow decided that he was trustworthy now? That was what he had meant, right? Most importantly, where did this leave him now? Logan still didn't know what was going on. He didn't even know if he wanted to be on Strider's side. The only reason he was even here was because he believed that Strider was the key to his getting back to New York. The mutant fed another stick into the fire. The flames crackled as it consumed the wood. This was so frustrating. It was obvious that he didn't belong here. Everyone knew it. So why was he still here? Logan didn't believe that there was a greater power out there somewhere who watched and controlled everything. However, he was now beginning to wonder. Had he been wrong all along?

Sam put another handful of ingredients into the steaming pot. "Mr. Logan, could you watch the pot while I go and get more water?" he asked. "Just make sure it doesn't boil over or burn, and if it starts doing that, take it off the fire."

"Sure," said Logan, not even bothering to be sarcastic. There was too much on his mind. Never had he been so confused, and too much thinking hurt his head. The Wolverine preferred to act, and not to ponder. At least he knew he could do something effective with his claws.

Pippin dumped another bundle of sticks on the ground and sat down with a sigh. "I can't wait until we reach Rivendell," he said, fishing an apple out of his pocket.

"Where's that?" asked Logan.

"I don't rightly know, actually," said the hobbit, "but I hear it's nice." He chewed thoughtfully. "Bilbo told us lots of stories about it. Bilbo's my cousin, you know, just like Frodo. Actually, Frodo's my second cousin, once removed from his mother's side, and twice removed from his father's..." Pippin's detailed description of his family tree soon mystified Logan, and without even knowing it, Logan tuned him out. Pippin didn't notice, for Logan nodded and made noises at the right places. All the while, the mutant was actually listening to the approaching footsteps of Strider and the other two hobbits.

Then Pippin's shout gained his attention again. "The stew's burning!" cried the hobbit.

Oops. Sam was not going to be happy.

* * *

"Someone had been there recently," said Aragorn. He was telling them about the old fire which Merry and Pippin had found over their meal of burnt stew. Sam would not stop glaring at Logan, even if he was too polite to actually say anything. The message was clear, and the other man seemed to know that he was not on the hobbit's list of 'good people' at the moment, because he kept quiet. Well, relatively quiet. He simply could not refrain from a comment every now and then. That was part of his nature, and they were slowly getting used to it.

"How long ago, I cannot tell," continued the ranger, "for Merry and Pippin's footprints had ruined many of the tracks." He stated this neutrally, with no blame in his voice. It was just a fact, and nothing more. "However, I can tell that there were definitely more than one set of boot prints. Perhaps they belonged to rangers or to something else. That is hard to say. It is pretty certain that Gandalf was there. He left a mark for us, but it seems he was in a hurry, or else he was running."

"From what?" asked Merry.

"I cannot say," said the ranger. "But we must be on our guard. We are far from Rivendell still, and it is not safe out here."

"You mean those black rider thingies are going to come after us?" guessed Logan.

"Yes, I mean exactly that. The Nazgûl are hunting us, and sooner or later, they will catch up," said Strider.

"Have you got a plan for what to do when the nasty ghouls catch up with us?" said the mutant.

"I'm still working on that," said Aragorn. "If you do have any ideas, Logan, please do share."

"Hey, you're the brains of this operation, not me." Aragorn didn't say anything. It was an odd thing to call what they were doing; an operation. He supposed it would make sense, but it was strange wording. Perhaps that was what Logan's people used. "I don't even know what's going on," continued Logan. "And you don't seem to want to tell me."

"It's better if you know less, trust me," said Aragorn. It was rather ironic, actually, asking Logan to trust him, when everyone could tell that he did not trust the other man.

"More knowledge never did anyone any harm," said Logan. "I know this. I live in a school."

"As you often remind us," said Aragorn. He would have to let Logan know sometime. The other man was not going to drop it. He was just waiting for the right chance to pounce, just like any predator worth the title would. And Logan was a predator through and through. It was hard to imagine him as prey. It wasn't just his looks, but his manner as well. He seemed always so ready to strike. The slightest provocation would probably be enough to make him retaliate. However, now was not the right time to appease the predator. He would have to remain hungry for a little while longer.

"And you're still not going to tell me," said Logan.

"You're learning quickly."

"As I've said, I can learn by osmosis."

"What's oz-moe-sis?" piped up Pippin. Logan seemed to visibly blanch at that simple question.

"Uh...well...I hate science," he said. "I really hate science."

* * *

Logan suddenly stopped in the middle of his convoluted explanation about cells, cytoplasm, diffusion, salt water and semi-permeable membranes. They were all getting confused anyway, and there were more important things to worry about, such as those nasty ghouls or black riders. He narrowed his eyes. His ears twitched, and he held up a hand to silence the hobbits' questions.

"What is it?" asked Strider, now fully aware that something was wrong.

"They're coming, those nasty ghouls," said Logan. He could hear the hoof beats of their horses drawing closer and closer. "And they're coming quickly. We'd better prepare for a fight, because we sure can't run from them." He extended his claws to emphasize his point.

"Build up the fire," commanded the ranger immediately. The hobbits and Logan looked at him in surprise. Did he _want_ those black riders to find them? "They fear fire," explained Strider. "It is the best defence that we have against them in the wild."

Merry and Pippin hurried to do as Strider had ordered, heaping wood onto their small cooking fire but taking care not to smother it. Pippin fanned it furiously. His eyes were wide with terror. He was not the only one. Sam was gripping Frodo's arm tightly, and his freckles were showing up starkly against his unnaturally pale face. "Stay close to the fire," said Strider.

Logan heard the horses stop, and then the sound of iron-shod feet hitting the stony ground. He placed himself between the hobbits and the direction of the sound. The fire behind him warmed his back and made him feel somewhat safer, but not by much. As the black riders drew closer, he felt cold, and had to suppress the urge to shiver. He still didn't really understand what they were, nor did he have any true desire to find out in detail.

One by one, dark figures emerged from the pale mist. They were tall, and cloaked in black. In their gauntleted hands were long swords of some sort of dark metal. Logan tried to make out their faces, but where there should have been a face, he could only see shadows. He felt an unnatural fear as they approached. Somehow, they seemed to bring fear with them, for Logan was hardly ever afraid.

Their footsteps echoed and shattered the silence. Then suddenly, Sam gave a shout. Frodo had disappeared. That was when the black riders decided to attack.

Logan rushed forward to meet them. This was a fight, and he never backed down from one. His claws sliced cleanly through one of the black riders' blades. However, even as he was finishing with that motion, his hand felt as if he had stuck it into a bucket of ice. He had no time to worry about the strange unpleasant sensation. He dropped and rolled just in time to avoid being decapitated, not that they would actually be able to decapitate him. It would just be awfully unpleasant. At that moment, he heard Frodo's scream. It sounded so far away, as if the hobbit had somehow travelled a mile or two while they hadn't been looking. "Mr. Frodo!" cried Sam. He searched frantically for his master, following the sound of the scream. Logan would have helped him, but he was too occupied.

He plunged his claws into what he assumed would be the black rider's head. The creature shrieked, just as he let out a cry. It was so cold that it burned. The claws automatically retracted. He fell back, clutching his arm. At that moment, Strider leapt into the fray, brandishing a flaming brand.

One of the black riders gave an angry scream as the flames licked at its robes and latched on. The flame consumed it so quickly that the dazed Logan wondered if someone had somehow doused it with accelerant. Then again, he hadn't smelled any accelerant.

Strider ducked a wide swipe which would have removed his head from his shoulders, then he lunged forward and thrust the burning brand at the black rider. It went up in flames just like its companion. Realization dawned on Logan. So that was why Strider had said that fire would be their best defence. He rolled again to avoid being cut into halves, and then grabbed himself a stick from their campfire. "You want a piece of me?" he snarled, outraged. "Well, come here!" He charged at one of the three remaining black riders. The thing dodged him nimbly and struck out with its blade. He blocked it with the claws of his other hand and then plunged the burning stick into the empty space where the head was supposed to have been. As he'd anticipated, the black rider's cloak caught fire. It dropped its blade, screaming so loudly that the mutant could not help but clap his hands over his ears. Sensitive hearing had its downsides.

From the corner of his eye, he could see the last black rider sneaking up on Strider. Logan tried to warn the man, but Strider was quicker. He suddenly whipped around and threw his burning brand at the black rider. The stick turned wheels in the air, and then the burning end landed in the black rider's hood. Flames engulfed it, and it added its scream to those of its companions. Logan gave another agonized cry. Were his ears bleeding yet? He couldn't tell.

The screams faded away as the burning black rider disappeared into the night. Logan slumped against a rock in relief and decided that from now on, he was going to appreciate silence more. At least that never hurt him. His breaths were coming in rough gasps and his throat felt as if he'd swallowed sandpaper. He flexed his hand, seeing if it had frozen. It was still cold, and that was most unnatural. He had a fast metabolism, which meant that he had a rather high body temperature. Still, if all he got from that nasty little encounter was a cold hand, then he was rather grateful. He could always warm up his hands close to the fire when they next had one.

There was no doubt as to what had happened to Frodo now. He had reappeared. Cold sweat beaded his brow, and his face was scrunched up in pain. Beside him lay a dark sword with the tip broken off. The other hobbits surrounded him, unsure of how they could help him. They were frantic, desperate; it was not hard to sense it. Strider rushed to Frodo's side and picked up the sword. The blade immediately disintegrated into dust, leaving only the hilt behind. Logan almost asked if Strider was a mutant, but decided against it. Now was probably not the time for this sort of discussion. They needed to call an ambulance...wait, they didn't have phones here, and if they didn't have phones, would they have hospitals?

"He needs Elven medicine, and quickly," said Strider. "He's been stabbed by a morgûl blade, and such a wound is lethal."

"What's a morgue blade?" asked Logan. It sounded like something that a funeral director would use.

"Morgûl blade," corrected Strider. "I'll explain it later. Sam, take the luggage off Bill. It will be better if Frodo rides. Leave what can be spared, and we'll distribute the remaining luggage amongst ourselves."

"How soon can we get help?" asked Logan.

"Rivendell is the only place where he can get help," said Strider. "We are still a long way away." He quickly set about removing Bill's pack saddle and replacing it with a folded blanket, which would probably make a more comfortable seat. Gently, as a father would do to a child, Strider gathered the injured hobbit into his arms and set him on the pony's back.

"Really, only my shoulder's been hurt, Strider," said Frodo weakly. "I can walk."

"No, Frodo, you can't," said the ranger. "And we will not have any arguments about that. The quicker we get to Rivendell, the better."

"But how can you walk when you're all weighed down by luggage?" said the hobbit stubbornly.

"Strider's right," said Sam. "You have to ride, Mr. Frodo, and we can manage just fine, can't we, Master Merry?"

"Yes, just fine," said Merry, putting on a smile and a brave face. Pippin only nodded. The youngest hobbit was not so good at hiding his worries, and the added weight on his back did not really cheer him up.

"Pippin can't," said Frodo.

"That's why I'm here," said Logan. Was it always so hard to reason with a hobbit, or was it just Frodo? He tried to relieve Pippin of one of his packs, and then discovered that perhaps stubbornness was a trait in Frodo's family, for Pippin insisted that he would be able to manage, even though it was obvious that the weight was too much for him. It was Strider who finally persuaded Pippin to relinquish his pack.

"I'm fine with it," Pippin kept on saying.

"I know," said Strider. The patience in his voice astounded everyone who could hear him. "But we need to travel very quickly so that Frodo can get to Rivendell as soon as possible. This is for the best."

"But won't Logan walk too slowly then?" asked Pippin. Sam was already leading Bill on. Strider strode ahead, with the young hobbit trotting to keep up.

"Hey, I can hear you, you know," said Logan. "And should there be a reason why I won't be able to keep up? My legs are twice as long as yours."

"They are not!" said Pippin indignantly, forgetting what the argument had been about in the first place. Logan simply grinned and increased his pace so that he could catch up with Strider, who was now in the lead. "How tall are you?"

"Six foot three," he replied. This was good. At least Pippin could take his mind off his ailing cousin. Logan didn't know what a 'morgue blade' was, but whatever it had done to Frodo, it looked serious.

"Well, I'm three foot six. If you were twice as tall, then you'd be seven feet tall, and you're not, so your legs can't be twice as long as mine."

"Actually, Pippin, you're three foot five," said Merry.

"Three foot _six_, Merry. I measured myself."

"You probably measured wrong."

"I did not!"

* * *

Mud splattered onto their clothes as they made their way through the rain. In the distance, Logan could hear the high keening of the black riders. They seemed to be communicating with one another. Hadn't Strider said that they had once been men? They sure didn't sound like men at the moment. "I thought they'd died," he commented to Strider.

"They do not die," replied the ranger. "The Nazgûl are not living, so you cannot kill them, but neither are they dead."

"That just made them a heck of a lot more annoying," said Logan.

"You could put it that way, but I prefer to call them dangerous." Strider glanced at Frodo. There was great worry in the man's eyes. Logan didn't blame him. The hobbit looked awful. His face was so pale that he could have been an actor in a vampire movie, and he smelled of sickness; well, at least Logan could smell it. Frodo kept on shivering and murmuring strange things to himself. Occasionally, he would speak to one of the others, usually the loyal Sam who was always by his side.

"They're calling to me, Sam," said Frodo softly. He was half delirious, and not really making much sense most of the time, but the meaning of this little statement seemed to be clear, at least to Strider. Logan was just as muddled as he had been almost a week ago, during that fateful night at that old watchtower. He'd forgotten the name already.

"We're not going to make it in time," said Strider. They had come to a clearing surrounded by what seemed like four dark rocks. However, once Logan actually paid attention, he discovered that they were not just rocks, but four very lifelike statues of monsters. He could even make out the detail of their leathery skin and the weave of their tattered garments. It was as if they could come to life at any moment.

"Those are Bilbo's trolls," said Pippin to his ailing cousin. "Frodo, can you see them? We're almost at Rivendell. You have to hold on."

"I feel so cold," said Frodo. Strider lifted him off Bill's back and set him gently on the ground before pulling Sam aside.

"Sam, I need you to help me locate the athelas plant," he said.

"Athelas?" asked a suitably confused Sam.

"Kingsfoil," explained Strider. That did not make much sense to Logan either, but Sam seemed to understand well enough, and that was all that mattered. The man and the hobbit combed the area around them, looking for this certain botanical specimen, while Logan tried his best to build a fire. Frodo kept on complaining about the cold, and the mutant figured that a fire would do them all some good. He was becoming better at this whole fire-starting thing. It took him about a hundred tries, but at least he managed to get the spark to land on the tinder, and soon he had a merry little flame. The other two hobbits helped him to build up the fire. Merry then busied himself with boiling a pot of water.

"Tea will be good for the lot of us," he said. "You'd like a nice cup of hot tea, wouldn't you, Frodo?" His false cheer could not mask the extreme worry. "I'll brew it the way you—" Logan suddenly hushed him, for he could hear hoof beats approaching. It did not sound like one of the black riders' horses, however, for these hooves were light, or as light as hooves could be.

"Strider," hissed the mutant. "Strider, someone's coming." As he spoke, he extended his claws, getting ready for another fight.

* * *

Aragorn sensed more than heard the approach of the horseman. He turned around, his hand straying slowly to his sword, although he did not draw it. He had encountered the Nazgûl often enough to know when one of them was approaching. This was not one such instance. The horse and its rider drew closer, and he could see the faint glow outlining the rider's body.

"Well met, Estel," called a melodious elven voice. "Perhaps I should not be surprised that you are once again searching for medicinal herbs."

"Well met indeed, milord," said Aragorn, bowing to the newcomer. He could recognize that voice anywhere. "You come in a time of great need."

"I have been searching for you," replied Glorfindel. "Lord Elrond sent out those of us who could ride openly against the nine. I am glad to have found you." The faint moonlight had turned his golden hair silver, and he looked as if he had been sent by Eru himself. Then again, that was what Glorfindel always looked like. Aragorn was so glad to see him that he could have laughed, but the situation was serious, and laughing about this would probably ruin his reputation as an austere and serious Dùnadan. Frodo had some hope after all.

* * *

Logan stared. He could not stop himself even if he had wanted to. That newcomer who was now speaking with Aragorn could not possibly be human. It was unnatural for something that was so obviously male to look so...pretty. His hair would be the envy of any Hollywood starlet, as would the shining grey eyes framed by long lashes and the flawless pale skin. And yet his physique could only belong to a male. Logan couldn't really get his head around that.

The ethereal being and Strider —who looked positively shabby next to his new friend— went over the Frodo. Logan sniffed. There was a new smell, and he couldn't really place it. If he was forced to describe it, then he would have said that it smelled like mint and something else; something nice. He realized that the scent was coming from the bunch of weeds which Strider was now crushing in his hands and putting in the hot water which Merry had prepared for making tea. It made him feel less tired, and a bit more relaxed. It seemed that this place, despite the fact that it looked like prehistoric Europe, had better air fresheners. Or maybe that was Strider's own brand of special energy drink, otherwise known as ranger tea.

The golden man spoke in a soft voice to the hobbit as Strider placed the plant pulp onto Frodo's wound. Logan did not understand the words, and it seemed as if he was not the only one, as the other hobbits were also looking confused and awestruck. They, like Logan, could only stare at the golden man as he lifted Frodo onto his horse. "Come, the nine are hunting you, and we are running out of time," he said to them. "Follow me. I shall lead you to the House of Elrond."

Logan perked up at the mention of the word 'house'. "You mean we're gonna return to civilization?" he asked. At last, he could get some decent rest, or so he hoped.

The golden man-thing turned to Strider, who hastened to introduce the two of them very briefly. "Lord Glorfindel, this is Logan. He is a new acquaintance of mine," he said. "Logan, this is Lord Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower." Then a look of regret flitted across his face as Logan first stilled, and then burst out into maniacal laughter, which did nothing to recommend him to the elven lord.

* * *

No matter how much Aragorn wished, Logan simply could not stop laughing. "House of the...the Golden Flower?" he wheezed in between bouts of laughter. "Oh geez, that is just too much!"

"I beg your pardon?" said Glorfindel, who had probably never encountered anyone so rude in his life, barring numerous orcs, and they didn't really count. The ranger, for his part, was utterly embarrassed by his companion's behaviour.

"I apologize, milord," he murmured to the elf in Sindarin. "Logan is a little odd. He is prone to displaying inappropriate behaviours at inappropriate times."

"So I see," said the elf lord, whose expression was now so cold that he might as well have been carved from stone. "No matter; we shall continue with our journey, and once we reach Rivendell, one of us will have to show your friend the meaning of civilization. He certainly does not seem to know it." With that, he slung the reins of Asfaloth over the horse's neck and then began to lead him out of the clearing. The rest of the hobbits followed the elf. Aragorn and Logan were at the back. The latter was still sniggering, which only served to irritate the tired ranger even more.

"Can you not even be polite for once?" he asked.

"Sorry, man, but that name just got to me," said Logan. He pressed his lips together tightly, but that could not stop him from grinning widely. "Golden Flower." He sniggered some more. To any mere mortal, it would be unnoticeable, but Aragorn was not just any man, and he could see Glorfindel stiffen at the front of the column.

"Lord Glorfindel is a great elven lord who has lived for many thousands of years. You would do well to show him some respect. He has faced demons more terrible than you can ever imagine."

"Even worse than those nasty ghouls?" asked Logan.

"He can fight them," replied the ranger. Logan was not grinning now, and he even looked a bit abashed; that was a rare thing.

"Aw, shucks," said the man. "But the name is really fitting; I mean, he's so pretty."

"He can hear you," said Aragorn. There was a hint of warning in his voice, but it seemed lost on Logan. The man seemed to have a death wish. 'Or does he think himself invincible because of his ability to heal?' wondered the ranger.

"Really?" said Logan. "That'll be handy for when the nasty ghouls return." He grimaced. "I don't know what they did to me, but my hand still feels freezing." It was a very effective change of subject, for Aragorn forgot about telling Logan off about laughing at Glorfindel's name, and immediately started to worry that his latest acquaintance had somehow been poisoned by the black breath. It was hard to repress the instincts of a healer. However, they couldn't stop now, with Frodo's condition deteriorating at this rate.

"You will let me look at your hand when we arrive," he said to Logan. Elrond would be too busy with Frodo, and considering how Logan had just burst out laughing at Glorfindel's name, he doubted that the man was actually in any danger, unless danger included the possibility of being decapitated by Lord Glorfindel, which seemed rather likely should Logan continue on being the way he was.

"I don't see why you're worrying," said Logan. "I mean, it's just cold, right? Nothing a fire won't fix." Aragorn shook his head and gave up on trying to reason with the man. He needed to conserve his energy for other things.

* * *

No matter what Logan thought of Glorfindel's appearance, or his name, he had to admit that the 'elf' was a very compelling taskmaster who would probably rise through the ranks as a commander in the army. He made them march the whole night, and then the whole day, only giving them two brief rests. Even Strider, for all his striding prowess, seemed to be driven to the very edge of his endurance. Frodo was the only one who was mounted. It was only fair, for he was the one who had been injured. Of course, no one complained, not even Pippin, so it would be awfully embarrassing for the Wolverine to say anything. Thus, he kept silent.

That night, there was neither moon nor stars, which did not cheer them up much. However, they were glad when they reached a patch of heather and Glorfindel let them sleep. Logan felt that perhaps he should re-evaluate his judgement of the elf's character. Maybe he did have a sense of compassion for his fellow creatures after all. Certainly he wasn't that harsh, when compared to a Roman slave master.

He lay down on the fragrant springy heather and put his hands behind his head. Forget five-star hotels; this was heaven to a man who had marched all day, and most of the night. Not that he would actually take this over a five-star hotel if given the choice. Ah, he was too tired; his thoughts weren't even coherent. What would he give to be back at home, lying in his own bed? He had no answer for that. What he did know was that he really did want to get out of this place, but only after he'd figured out this little mystery. "When are we gonna get to this Riverdale place?" he asked.

"Rivendell," said Glorfindel. "If we hurry, we should be able to get there in two days at the very most."

Two days. It sounded like an awfully long time to Logan. After all, where he came from, two days was enough for someone to travel from one end of the globe to the other. He knew that they said that the world was small, but he had travelled enough, and the world wasn't really that small. He closed his eyes. Perhaps he should take things as they came. Life was less complicated that way, because then he would only have to deal with one thing at a time.

* * *

_He was back at home, in the kitchen. The smell of pancakes permeated the air. There was a loud sizzle as the petite woman with cappuccino skin and white hair poured more batter into the pan. Logan's mouth watered. He reached for one of the cooling pancakes, only to have his hand batted away. "Aw, come on, Storm," he said, trying to wheedle her into letting him get his treats. "They're all going to be eaten anyway." _

"_Get up," said Ororo 'Storm' Monroe, not sounding like herself. "Logan, we're not having pancakes, and you'd better get up." She grabbed his shoulder and shook it. _

Logan opened his eyes and got ready to demand an explanation as to why on earth he was not allowed to touch those pancakes. Instead of his fellow mutant, however, he encountered the weathered face of Strider. Damn, he was still out in the wild, and there was no food to be had, apart from stale bread and dried fruit, which, in Logan's opinion, was not fit for human consumption.

The sky was still tinted with hues of pinks and oranges. The sun had just risen, but already the hobbits were rolling up their blankets and eating their meagre rations. Strider handed Logan some of the bread and dried fruit. "Hurry up and eat that," he said. "We have a long march ahead of us today, and you will need all your strength."

"Are we gonna get a decent dinner tonight?" Logan asked as he grudgingly took the bread and fruit. He might have found it gastronomically unsatisfactory, but Strider was right; he did need some nourishment. He tore off a hunk of bread, chewed it hastily, and washed it down with a mouthful of water.

"If we reach it in time for dinner, then I daresay Lord Elrond will have the cooks prepare an excellent meal for all of us. If not, well, I am pretty sure we will get a decent supper, provided we actually reach Rivendell by then, of course." Strider grinned briefly. "At the rate you're going, Logan, you're not only going to miss dinner and supper, but breakfast also."

Logan swallowed the last of the bread and fruit before leaping to his feet. "You be careful what you say," he warned the ranger, "or else you'll find yourself missing the majority of your meals, because I'm gonna get there first and eat your share."

Strider seemed to be about to answer, but then Glorfindel pressed a small silver studded leather flask into his hands, along with a small cup, effectively cutting off the pointless argument which the two men were having. "Drink this," he said. The ranger did so without question, and then poured out some of the liquid for Logan, who took the cup warily.

The liquid inside looked to be water, for it was clear. Then again, many strong liquors looked clear. Still, when had the Wolverine ever shied away from strong liquors? He downed it. There was no taste, and it was neither warm nor cold, but he was quite certain that it was not water. Water could not make him feel as if he was ready to run a marathon, or walk one, at the very least.

"What's this?" he asked, staring at the cup. Strider took it back and returned both cup and flask to Glorfindel, who stowed it away in one of his saddlebags.

"It's an elven concoction," said Strider.

"It's effective," said Logan, thinking that this must be some sort of drug, maybe even a class A drug. He flexed his muscles. Ah well, if it made him feel this good without making him act like a hyperactive child, then it was probably good for him. And if it wasn't, well, then his system could deal with it.

"It should be," said the ranger. "It was made by the elves of Rivendell." Glorfindel and the hobbits had already begun their march. It wasn't too hard for the two men to catch up, however, considering the fact that the elf had had to slow down to suit the pace of the hobbits. Logan had learned very quickly that not only did elves have superior hearing and sight to mere humans, they were also impossibly fast and seemingly tireless. Last night, Glorfindel had kept watch all night long, but he was still as full of energy as if he was fully rested.

'From the way Strider talks, I feel as if I'm going to meet more of these wonders on two legs,' thought Logan. He was not really paying much attention to what Glorfindel was now saying. It was clear that the elf was explaining the route that they were going to take. Since Logan didn't know any of the geographical landmarks, it seemed pretty pointless to try and understand it. All he needed to do was follow the others, and it would be fine.

They were now walking on a wide road. The trees were giving way to shrubs and weeds, and it was getting steeper by the moment. Actually, Logan felt that it was a bit of an exaggeration to call it a road, for it looked more like a two lane street, and a narrow one at that. It was covered with shingles, which made it even more perilous to walk on, for it was hard to keep one's footing. He felt sorry for the hobbits. It ought to hurt, walking with bare feet on small sharp rocks, but they were not complaining, even if they sometimes chose to walk on the grass at the side of the road. Bill liked it when Sam led him over to the grass, and he would often stop for a snack. It took much coaxing and pulling to actually get him moving again. Logan didn't blame the nag. He could do with a decent snack himself.

Then a piercing unnatural scream and the sound of rapid iron-shod hooves behind him drove all thoughts of snacks from his mind and made him think of earmuffs instead. He wasn't the only one who'd heard it, for Glorfindel had whipped around at the same time. His entire body was tense, as if he was preparing to spring into battle.

"Fly, fly!" cried the elf. "The enemy is upon us!" He broke into a run, pulling his horse along behind him. The others struggled to keep up, even if they had drunken that strange elixir. They had just about reached the flat land when five black riders burst out from the trees on either side of the road. Their dark robes billowed behind them, and their horses were frothing at the mouth.

"Ride, Frodo!" called Glorfindel. "Ride for the ford, now!" If Frodo had been in his right mind, then he would have done just that, Logan was certain. However, his injury seemed to have done something to his mind, for he glanced back, as if he wanted to stay and wait for the black riders. The elven lord didn't give him that choice. He slapped his horse on the rump, all the while giving it commands in his strange melodic language. The animal broke into a gallop. Logan could not help but admire its grace and speed. This was the sort of horse he would have loved to bet on at the races. Even better, it seemed to like to run, or it could be just the fact that there were some dark screeching things chasing it.

Frodo and the horse were soon no more than just a pale spot in the distance. Just as the black riders reached them, they got off the road in time to avoid being trampled down by twenty iron-shod hooves. Logan clapped his hands over his ears and gritted his teeth as one of them screamed again. Here was another form of torture. Thank goodness Magneto had not discovered it yet. The black riders gave them no thought; it was as if they did not exist at all. Instead, the dark spectres converged on Frodo, seeming to surround him.

"We've gotta do something!" hollered Logan. "We've gotta do something!"

"I know that," said Glorfindel. "Be calm; panicking will not help Frodo." He ran after the black riders, his feet barely making any imprint on the ground as he sped across it, more like a cheetah than a human being, not that Logan had ever seen a cheetah running in real life. The others followed him, even though it seemed futile. Perhaps alone, Glorfindel would have managed to catch up with the black riders, but how could two men, three hobbits and one mangy pony keep up with those galloping leviathans? Still, they had no choice but to follow Glorfindel's lead and try to help Frodo in any way they could.

The elven lord led them to a hollow close to the river. The black riders had gathered on the banks of said river, and Frodo was almost on the other side. For one reason or another, the black riders seemed reluctant to cross the river, or even touch the water. 'Are they like vampires?' wondered Logan. For all he knew, this river could be some river of holy water, and perhaps touching it could melt the black riders. It was an encouraging thought.

"Build a fire," instructed Glorfindel.

"A fire?" asked Logan. "We can't have lunch now! We've gotta help Frodo!"

"Do as he says, Logan," said Strider. "There is no time for argument!" Logan was still uncertain, but considering Strider had not gone wrong before, he was willing to trust the ranger one more time. He rummaged through Bill's saddlebags, searching for the flint and the tinderbox.

"I've got it, Logan," said Pippin. The little hobbit already had a small flame, and the others were carefully feeding dry sticks to it. "Can you please go and fetch more firewood? Lord Glorfindel wants the fire to be big."

"Wait," said Logan as he began to realize something. "You're going to use this fire to fight those nasty ghouls, aren't you?" Clearly, his worry for Frodo and everyone else, including himself, was tampering with his ability to think properly.

* * *

**A/N: **I still couldn't get them to Rivendell. At least they're almost there. This is my first time writing Glorfindel, and I'm not quite certain about my portrayal of him. If you have any advice or suggestions, please tell me. I really want to get him right; well, I want to get all of it right. On another note, this chapter is abnormally long. The next chapter won't be quite as long, I think.


	6. That 'Riverdale' Place

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Disclaimer: **I do not own anything that you recognize. I'm just borrowing them for this little escapade.

**Darcy **and** Chelly: **I'm glad you're enjoying the story.

**Anon: **Thanks for telling me your concerns about Logan's characterization. I realize he might come off as less tough than he really is when he complains about his discomfort. That's just to show how grumpy he is really. You know how when you're grumpy, you want to complain about anything and everything? That's how Logan's feeling. He's rather frustrated with Strider's secrecy, and he's also had enough of supernatural beings who hurt his ears and make his hand freeze. As for starting the fire...it will be explained sooner or later. ;) Can't have people think that he's only got his claws.

Thank you to all who reviewed.

**Chapter 6: That 'Riverdale' Place**

Logan almost dropped his load of firewood on his feet as he heard a roar in the distance. The rumbling sound continued, and it became louder and louder as whatever was causing it drew closer. "Do you hear that?" he asked Glorfindel, who was speaking to Strider in muted tones, not that anyone would be able to understand them, because they were using that strange language again.

"I do, Master Logan," replied the elf. Logan had a feeling that Glorfindel did not like him much, and it had something to do with him laughing at his name. Some people had no sense of humour. After all, it was a very strange name.

"You think it's some sort of avalanche?" asked the mutant. That's what it sounded like, after all. He kept glancing at the direction in which the sound was coming from, all the while wishing that he also had superior eyesight so that he could actually see what was going on. All he could see were the dark horses panicking, and that could mean a good thing or a bad thing.

He had no time to ask any further questions, for the black riders wheeled their horses around and started galloping back towards them, and they were screaming very loudly. All in all, they sounded mad. Instinctively, he extended his claws, and then remembered that they didn't do much against those black riders. Strider already had two burning brands, and the hobbits each had one. Logan also grabbed one, and then noticed that Glorfindel was unsheathing his finely crafted sword.

"That won't work against those things, pal," he said.

"I believe I know what will work against the Nazgûl and what will not," said the elf. He didn't even turn to look at Logan. "There is no need for you to teach me." His eyes were harder than flint, and there was a cold calm edge to his voice. It didn't bode well.

"Well, I'm just sayin' it," muttered Logan. He waved his claws around to emphasize the point, and those caught Glorfindel's attention. The elf's eyes widened in shock, and then narrowed as he tried to discern whether the lengths of metal were protruding from between the man's knuckles, or whether the man was simply playing a trick on him. Logan grinned and held up his hand so he could show off his weapons clearly to Glorfindel. He would give Goldilocks something to think about. The black riders were coming up really quickly, and he was not in the mood to come up with a more acidic comment. This would do for now.

"When they reach us, we will stop them and drive them back," said Glorfindel.

"Drive them back?" said Merry. "Won't we be chasing them _towards_ Frodo then?"

"Frodo is safe," said Strider reassuringly. He seemed to know exactly what Glorfindel planned to do. "He is in elven territory now, and the black riders cannot reach him." Logan raised an eyebrow at the ranger, wondering if this little plan had anything to do with the approaching avalanche. Still, it was the only plan they had, and it was better than nothing.

The black riders were charging down the road. Just as they were about to reach the little hollow, Glorfindel leapt into action. Well, Logan presumed that was what had happened. Everything had moved a little too quickly for his eyes to follow. Before he knew it, the black horses were there and rearing in fear at the sight of the elf lord. It was not over. Some of the black riders tried to go around Glorfindel, but Strider was already there, brandishing his burning sticks.

The Elven lord seemed to glow with some sort of internal fire. Well, he was glowing anyway, at least from Logan's perspective. The Wolverine knew that he was not the most sensitive of people. In fact, detecting the emotions of others was very difficult for him most of the time, but even he could feel the anger emanating from the elf. It suffused the air and only served to increase his excitement for the impending fight. He might not have a degree in some academic subject that he was never going to use, and he might not be able to write an essay on anything, but _this _was what he was good at. Logan had little use for subtlety.

He ran over to where one of the black riders were breaking through the pathetically thin line, burning brand in one hand and claws extended on the other. The claws might not have done much to the black riders, but he was pretty sure that they were good enough for cutting up horses. Letting out a roar of fury which sounded animalistic even to his ears, he lunged at the escaping horse and rider. While the black rider did not seem to think much of Logan, the horse had other ideas. It didn't particularly like large things with claws and fire which charged at it at high speeds while making threatening sounds.

The beast shied, causing the black rider to yank on the reins roughly. The foam at the corners of its mouth turned pink with blood. It snorted and squealed in protest. Fear overwhelmed its sense of obedience, and the animal went in the direction which Logan had intended. It gave him no small sense of success. Brains and supernatural wrath were all very well, but who said that brute force could not be just as effective?

No matter how hard the black riders tried to break through the barricade of men, hobbits, elf lord, and their assorted weapons, they kept on being herded back towards the river. They screamed in outrage, but it did no good, for their enemies were not about to relent. The roar of Logan's supposed 'avalanche' drew closer and closer. As the black riders were finally driven into the river, a torrent of water burst around the bend, sending spray flying everywhere.

"What the...?" said Logan. He was unable to be any more eloquent than that, for he was shocked into silence. The water had taken the shape of white galloping horses of foam. The black riders tried to flee, but they were overtaken by these unnatural animals. Not even these things were a match for the forces of nature —or what passed for nature in this strange place— for they were washed away by the flood. Logan could see the tumbling black bodies of the horses in the rushing water; they looked like nothing more than dark dolls in the foam.

As suddenly as the flood came, it was gone, and with it, the black riders. It was calm again. As Logan slowly retracted his claws, all he could hear was birdsong. It was as if the flood had been a dream. However, the banks of the river were glistening with water. That was the only trace which the flood had left. "What the hell was that?" he asked. "It looked like the reverse of Moses and the Red Sea."

The others looked at him blankly. The sentence made sense, grammatically, but the meaning completely eluded them. Logan held up his hands in defeat. "All right," he said. "So we don't know the Bible either. Why am I not surprised?" If this had been under normal circumstances, he would have expected a barrage of questions from the hobbits, but not even Pippin was in the mood for questioning Logan's strange customs, it seemed. Their only concern was the safety of their cousin; they made that very clear.

"Asfaloth has taken him to the House of Elrond," said Glorfindel, when the hobbits accosted him with questions. "He is in good hands." Somehow, the voice of the elf lord seemed to soothe them, and they looked a little less worried. Logan quickly decided that elves were unnatural creatures; even more unnatural than mutants. Or, Glorfindel could be like Charles Xavier, and he was manipulating the hobbits' thoughts and emotions. That was the only other explanation. It didn't make the golden being seem any less impressive. The anger had faded away to be replaced by unsurpassable calm. The elf's face was once again as smooth as polished marble. "Come," he continued. "We should cross the ford. No doubt you are all weary, and the hospitality of Elrond awaits."

* * *

He didn't know what it was about this place, but it felt nice and it smelled nice. And they hadn't even reached the 'house' yet. As Glorfindel and Strider led them through otherwise unidentifiable paths in the valley, Logan felt the tension fade away from his limbs. Even his cold hand didn't feel so cold any more. Everything was so lush and green, and it was all covered by a golden veil. Then again, that could just be the warm sunlight. In the distance, Logan could hear the roar of a waterfall. All and all, this seemed like a perfect holiday destination, if one was into nature and the great outdoors. It was nice, but to Logan, nothing could beat a bar fights and ever-flowing beer.

Speaking of which, he hoped that the 'hospitality of Elrond' included good beer. Strider and Glorfindel had been describing the wonders of this 'Last Homely House' so much that the mutant was sure that they were going to be disappointed. No place could be that wonderful, surely, and he didn't really believe in the existence of Heaven. He did, however, believe in the existence of Hell. Of course, he had a nagging suspicion that they were doing this to cheer up the gloomy hobbits. On occasion, even Logan had employed such a tactic, even if his tales could only convince three year olds.

Increasing his pace, he caught up with Strider, who, it seemed, had regained his striding prowess. Perhaps this place was having the same effect on him as it did on Logan, and everyone else, it seemed. The mutant tapped the ranger on the shoulder, gaining the other man's attention. "Don't you think that upping their expectations so much is a stupid thing to do?" he asked in a low voice. "I mean, I know you're tryin' to cheer them up and everything, but sooner or later, they're going to figure it out, and then you'll be sorry."

"I beg your pardon, Logan, but what are you talking about?" asked the ranger.

"You can't truly believe that this Riverdale place is _that_ nice, do you?"

"Logan, I've spent the first twenty years of my life in this _Rivendell_ place, and I promise you that every word I say about it is the truth," replied Strider. The path was becoming more defined now. "Why don't you take a look?"

Logan had been so busy thinking about beer and tall tales that he had forgotten to keep a close eye on his surroundings. Now, he did as Strider asked him, and he had to fight back the urge to pinch himself. Walt Disney himself would have been in awe of this place. What he could only call a palace complex nestled against tall cliffs. A waterfall cascaded down into the depths of a ravine, sending up a sparkling spray. Sunlight hitting the millions of tiny water droplets created a rainbow —and reminded him of the physics lesson in which he was a sub and where the kids had started teaching him their material on prisms and rainbows and a lot of things which he didn't rightly understand. As much as he hated to admit it, he missed those kids.

Glorfindel was already speaking with another person, who looked to be of the same species, only a lot less magnificent. He looked like a guard, although Logan could not be sure. They all had a tendency to dress in weird clothes here, and he didn't know the first thing about fashion. He did, however, think that hair which reached the small of one's back belonged on women, unless it happened to be an unruly wiry mane like that of Sabretooth.

Glorfindel turned to them. "You may pass," he said. "And the guard has told me that Elrond himself has received Frodo and is now tending to him."

"Thank goodness for that," said Sam with a relieved sigh. "I was gettin' so worried."

* * *

The wholesome air of Rivendell made Aragorn feel as if he was a youth again. There was something about this place which reminded him of how young he was in the eyes of the people who had raised him. He would always be their little Estel in some ways. He smiled. There were so many people whom he was looking forward to seeing again. Glorfindel seemed to know that, for he winked at the ranger.

"And I'm sure everyone will be glad to see you," said the golden elf. "In fact, I hear a rather enthusiastic welcoming delegation coming this way." He had not even finished the last word, when two elves, sprinting so quickly that they were hardly more than dark moving blurs, charged towards the tired company. Somehow, they managed to stop before they actually collided into anyone. Aragorn was not the least bit surprised. That was the way of the elves; their control was indescribable.

"Elladan, Elrohir," he said, greeting the two newcomers. "By Elbereth, am I glad to see you."

"Greetings, little Estel," said Elladan. He was usually the more austere one. "I see that you are back, and in one piece! _Adar _will be pleased."

"And you've grown too," said Elrohir. "Thinner, that is." He grinned, and his expression was infectious. "Little brother, you really are a diligent ranger. You have even managed to mask your smell from possible trackers. Congratulations."

"Elrohir, bathing in freezing marshes and stinking stagnant water is not my choice of personal hygiene," said Aragorn.

"No, you just choose to use the smell as a perfume," said the grinning elf. He clapped Aragorn on the back. "No matter. I, like Elladan, am glad to have you back, stinking and unshaven as you are."

"I do not stink," said Aragorn. There was no sharpness in his tone. In fact, he sounded bored. This was an old argument, and he could never win it. He'd given up trying decades ago. Elves were good at everything, including debating. Why waste valuable energy on what was obviously a futile quest?

* * *

Logan's head was reeling; it really was. This place was a thousand times better than Disneyland —he'd been to one of those theme parks once before and absolutely hated it— and it would be the envy of any king. Hell, an _Emperor_ would be jealous of whoever owned this place, some Al Wrong or something rather. And then he'd just been confronted with the fact that Strider had two older brothers who looked as if they belonged on the cover of some beauty magazine and who looked as if they were in their mid-twenties.

"Are all the people here androgynous?" he asked Strider, none too softly.

Strider looked confused. "What's 'an-drudge-ness'?" he asked.

"Aw, come on!" said Logan. "You've gotta know the meaning of _that_ word. I mean, it's an important part of your vocabulary!" With that, he began to explain in great detail...or a great too many details. One could never tell with the Wolverine. He did feel that they were important. When he was done, Strider was pale, and so was Glorfindel. The former, with shock, and it was pretty obvious why the latter was pale.

"Are you saying that I look neither male nor female?" said the golden elf in a very low voice. If Logan had not fallen asleep during that documentary about lions, then he would have known that before attacking, a lion would growl very softly. That was the way Glorfindel sounded right now.

"Well, yeah," said Logan, shrugging. "I mean, you have really pretty face." He caught sight of the other two elves growing pale. "Oh, don't worry, you're pretty too, but he's prettier—" He could not even finish the word. He'd known that Glorfindel was fast, but the speed of that fist was phenomenal. It came straight at his face. Unfortunately, the elf's aim was deadly too.

Logan leapt back, roaring so loudly that Strider winced and Sam clapped his hands over his ears. At the same time, Glorfindel was letting out a stream of what could easily be translated as profanities and shaking his very sore hand.

The commotion seemed to have attracted all the inhabitants of Rivendell. Soon, they were all surrounded by crowds. The elves were too polite to whisper and gossip about what had just happened, but it was very clear that they were curious. It was not often that Glorfindel hurt his hand while punching someone.

This precedent, however, did not look as if it was going to stop Strider's brothers from following the golden elf's example. Logan growled. They wanted a fight? Well, they were going to get one. He extended his claws in one smooth move. "You wanna hit me?" he said. "Here I am. Bring it on!"

"Logan!" said Strider, who'd finally recovered the use of his voice. He grabbed the other man's arm, noting that no matter how strong Glorfindel's punch had been, the other man's face looked fine, even if his expression was murderous. "That's enough."

"You want me _not_ to punch him back?" demanded Logan. It was the most absurd thing he'd ever heard. If someone attacked him, then he was attack his attacker right back. It was the natural order. The Wolverine never backed down from a fight, and Glorfindel had issued an outright challenge.

"Have you ever thought of what the punch was about?"

"I don't care what the punch was about!"

"What do you expect when you tell someone that they look effeminate?"

"Oh." Suddenly, it did make sense, but that didn't mean that Logan was not going to return that punch. "He still punched me, and he's not getting away with it."

Things were about to turn for the worse, when a clear voice rang out. "What is going on?" demanded a deep gruff voice. Logan forgot about Glorfindel. He forgot about the punch. He forgot about androgynous creatures. All his attention was focused on the old man draped in a grey tent. His hairstyle was different, and he had a long beard, but that face; he would know it anywhere.

"Magneto," he said. And then he lunged, claws brandished, and looking like he was ready to rip someone into a million pieces. In fact, he probably was.

* * *

This was the last thing anyone had expected, least of all Aragorn. Logan was violent, but he was hardly ever violent without at least some provocation, and Gandalf certainly hadn't done anything to him...yet. His shock rooted him to the spot. He wanted to do something to stop that madman on his rampage, but who could control fury like that? It would take nothing short of some sort of otherworldly intervention.

It was lucky, then, that Gandalf had dealt with many things more fearsome than Aragorn's latest acquaintance. He moved out of the way quickly enough—much faster than Logan had expected him to anyway. Unfortunately, there was someone behind him.

Elrond was a warrior. He was also a healer, but when there was danger around, it was the warrior in him who reacted. He twisted out of the way as the charging man came straight at him, and with movements which were too quick for the mortal eye to follow, he managed to throw the man onto his back. "What is your business in Rivendell?" demanded the elven lord. "Speak!"

"You keep out of this, you hear me?" growled Logan. His claws were still out, and Aragorn was very worried that he might do something rash with them, especially now that his foster father was involved. The other man's introduction to the world of elves had not exactly been smooth, and he was probably feeling overwhelmed, as well as threatened. He had, after all, been attacked by an elven lord. The ranger did not know why Logan had tried to attack Gandalf, but he had said something about the 'mag-nee-toe' before. Perhaps it was a case of mistaken identity. Either way, it would be foolish to let this misunderstanding be blown out of proportion. It wasn't Logan's fault that he didn't have any tact at all.

"Adar, he's with me," said the ranger, stepping forward. Elrond looked up in surprise.

"Estel, you brought this man here?" he asked, raising his eyebrow. The expression made Aragorn feel as if he was six again and had just done something wrong. He clasped his hands behind his back.

"Yes, I did," he replied. "I met him on my travels, and I could scarcely leave him in the wild when he was obviously lost."

"I have the feeling that he would have no problem with cutting his way out of most things," muttered Glorfindel darkly. He was not about to forgive the man any time soon. He valued his dignity and honour.

"Please explain, Estel," said Elrond. "Is it wise to bring this man here? We know nothing of him, and for all we know, he could be a spy of the enemy, as unlikely as that sounds."

"What do you mean it's unlikely?" demanded Logan. "I make a damn good spy, even if I say so myself!"

Elrond raised his other eyebrow. This was not the reaction he had been expecting.

"This is precisely why I don't think he's a spy," said Aragorn with a wry grin. "It's self-explanatory." Wait...Valar, he was beginning to sound a bit like Logan! Sure, he hadn't adopted that atrocious accent yet, but being with that man had brought out his sarcastic self, it seemed. He would have to try and keep that part of his character at bay. Sarcasm was most unbecoming for the heir of Isildur, and he intended to fulfil his destiny, for a number of reasons.

"Can you please stop talking as if I'm not here, because I _am_ here, and I can hear you!" said Logan, who seemed to be annoyed that Aragorn did not think him capable of being a spy. Come to think of it, it was rather insulting, but surely Logan ought to be relieved that he was not going to be interrogated? Well, he was going to be interrogated, either way, but the ranger was certain that the interrogators would be kinder if they were not so suspicious to the man. Then again, Logan had already managed to incur Glorfindel's wrath without raising his suspicions. Of course, Logan's irritation could also have stemmed from the fact that he had been thrown onto the ground by the scholarly-looking Lord Elrond.

"Do you _want_ us to think that you are a spy?" asked Elladan, eyeing the man's claws with much suspicion. His gaze travelled from Logan to Aragorn, and then settled on the ranger. Aragorn knew that look, and he was wondering how he could provide the explanation which the elf was asking for.

"It would be a lot less offensive than saying that you think I'm too stupid to be a spy, because, believe it or not, I was a mercenary, and an effin' good one."

"That I do not doubt," said Elladan, although he probably didn't know what 'effin' meant.

"Thank you!" said Logan, rolling his eyes. "At last there's someone who _doesn't_ underestimate me."

"No one meant to offend you," said Aragorn. Well, maybe Glorfindel did mean to offend with that punch of his, but that was rightly justified, and therefore did not really count. "I am just stating the obvious. You don't speak the way a spy would. And I am right in saying that you are no spy, am I not?"

"And here comes the Shakespearian language again," said Logan. "No, I'm not a spy, at least, not at the moment."

"Is he always like this?" whispered Elladan to Aragorn in Sindarin.

"So far, yes," replied the ranger. "It could be his hunger speaking, but I am not certain." He turned back to Logan, who was attracting more and more crowds with his strange behaviour. "However, Logan, you have to provide us with some explanations, and _not_ about the meaning of 'an-drudge-ness'. Until you do so, you will not be able to dispel the speculations about who you are and what you are. Those claws are not natural."

"Of course I bloody well know they're not natural," said Logan, retracting said claws. "And you never asked for the explanations. How the hell was I supposed to know that you wanted them?" He dusted himself off and straightened his now very tattered jacket. "Is a man allowed to eat first before the Spanish Inquisition begins?"

"What's a spanner-ish inquisition?" asked Pippin. The hobbits had stayed silent up until now, trying to absorb the fact that they _were _in the Last Homely House, as well as everything else which had happened.

Merry rolled his eyes. "Obviously it's an interrogation method which uses a spanner," he said.

"I don't care about spanners and interrogations," said Sam. "Where's Mister Frodo?"

* * *

Logan was pretty sure that the old man in the grey tent was Magneto in a weird disguise. After all, he looked just like Magneto, even if he didn't smell the same. It was easy to change one's scent, especially if the change included the smell of that strange sort of tobacco which Strider and the rest of them liked to smoke. After all, it was a strong smell which tended to mask most other scents.

He followed Strider through the winding corridors as the two men made their way towards that elf-lord's study, too irritated and tired to take note of the beautiful and detailed paintings on the walls. At any rate, Logan was not an admirer of fine art. Raphael and Picasso all looked the same to him, except Raphael painted naked women better. There were no naked women on these walls to take his attention away from his thwarted attempt at killing the disguised Magneto. "You should've let me skewer him," he growled to the ranger.

"No, I should not have," said Strider. "Gandalf is an old friend of mine, and a good one."

"You mean it wasn't Magneto back there?" said Logan. He was finding that rather hard to believe. What sort of odd coincidence was it that two different people would look so much alike? It simply wasn't possible.

"Gandalf has many names, but "Mag-nee-toe" is not one of them," said Strider. "I must ask you to trust me on this one, Logan. I've known Gandalf for eighty-six years."

Logan snorted. "Firstly, why should I trust you on everything when you don't trust that I'm good enough to be a spy, and secondly, stop exaggerating; you can't have known this Gandalf fellow for eighty-six years because that would make you at least eighty-six years old, and you're not."

"No, I am not eighty-six," agreed Strider. "I'm eighty-seven."

Logan snorted. "No, you're not," he said.

"Logan, I think I would know how old I am, or do you not trust me on that either?"

"I think you're taking the piss out of me," said Logan. Strider's eyes widened with shock.

"I beg your pardon?" he asked. God, these people were such prudes. 'Piss' wasn't exactly a profanity, at least, not in Logan's mind.

"I mean, I think you're kidding," said Logan hastily, before Strider misunderstood him completely and thought he was implying something entirely inappropriate. There was no guessing what the ranger could be thinking of. "No...you don't understand 'kidding'? Fine...what about...joking?" Well, from Strider's expression, he deduced that the ranger probably wasn't having him on. While Middle Earth did not have telephones, they did seem to have very good cosmetic surgery. It never occurred to him that someone other than him could maintain a youthful facade for longer than usual. Of course, he knew about the immortal elves —how could he not when everyone kept on talking about it? Strider, however, was human...or was he?

"No, I am not joking," said Strider. His shock was gone already, "although I do understand your confusion. My people age more slowly than usual men. In their eyes, I know I seem no more than fifty."

"That's a nice bonus of being...whatever you are," said Logan. "But I still beat you."

"What do you mean?"

"I'm older than you."

"Truly?" Strider smiled. "You are not...kidding?"

"Hah! You're picking up slang! But no, I'm not kidding. I really am older than you. I'm one hundred and...something, give or take."

* * *

Aragorn's head was reeling with random unrelated facts about Logan's life a few moments later when they stepped into Elrond's study. The master of Imladris was seated at his large oaken desk. His face betrayed no emotion, but he was fiddling with a quill, which usually meant that he was thinking. Gandalf was there too, seated with his back to one of the three windows, and his hunched shape was silhouetted against the light. He seemed older than the last time the ranger had seen him. His staff leaned against the back of his chair. It was a good idea to have it within reach. Who knew whether Logan would decide to attack the wizard again?

Soft sunlight filtered through the coloured glass in the windows and illuminated the dust motes floating in the air, slowly drifting downwards. The light cast long shadows with soft edges on the floor and on the walls. The room had not changed much since Aragorn had last been here. There were the familiar shelves with tomes upon tomes of leather-bound books with golden inscriptions on the spines in Sindarin, Quenya, Westron, and every tongue spoken in Middle Earth. Framed maps hung from the single wall which was not broken up by a window.

The stained glass windows depicted scenes from Elven history. Elrond preferred the peaceful ones about the awakening of the Eldar and the time of the Great Music. Dappled shadows from the leaves of the trees outside sometimes broke up the shafts of light. The wooden ceiling, darkened with age, was adorned with hollowed hexagonal coffers, and around the edges there were reliefs of leaves and birds and flowers. It was a very peaceful room with a contemplative air.

Along with Elrond and Gandalf were Erestor and Glorfindel. Opposite them were two empty chairs, which Aragorn supposed were for him and Logan. Aragorn bowed to his foster father. It was what etiquette dictated. He also tugged at Logan's sleeve. That man needed a hint.

Logan glanced around, seemingly confused as to why Aragorn had tugged on his sleeve. He was also awestruck. No matter how little he appreciated art, even he could not deny the beauty of this room. "Hey...sir," he said awkwardly. Aragorn winced at the informality. Maybe Logan needed a lot more hints in the future. Elrond, to his credit, was unperturbed. Nor did he mention how inappropriate Logan's greeting was.

"Please, sit," he said, indicating the two empty seats. As Logan sat, the chair groaned in protest.

"Metal skeleton," he said as a way of explaining why the chair was creaking. It only served to fuel the curiosity more.

"Master Logan," began Elrond, once everyone had settled down and was comfortable enough. "I have heard a number of things about you, and all of them confuse me greatly."

"Yeah, well, you're not the only one who's confused, Al," said Logan. Gandalf started coughing violently, probably masking laughter. Even the sombre and serious Erestor was hiding a smile. Elrond, however, only raised both eyebrows.

"What?" said Logan. "Your name's Al, right?"

"It's Elrond," said Aragorn softly. Not that no one else could hear him, but it was more polite this way.

"Yeah, that's right. First name's Al, last name's Rond...or am I wrong again?"

"How perceptive of you," murmured Glorfindel.

"I heard that," said Logan. "And Goldilocks, I'm very perceptive."

"Goldilocks?" said Erestor. "Master Logan, you must be mistaken. This is Lord Glorfindel of the—"

"He knows who I am," said Glorfindel, who seemed most reluctant to have Logan burst out laughing at his name again. Aragorn couldn't blame him. As serious and austere as these elf-lords seemed, they were not averse to teasing each other. The elf from Gondolin was wise not to give them a new joke; they had long memories.

"So why is Logan calling Glorfindel Goldilocks?" said Gandalf.

"Don't you know the story?" said Logan. "I guess I'll have to explain then. There were these three bears, see, and this little girl called—hey! What did you do that for?" Aragorn was wise enough to know that it would not have boded well if Logan had been allowed to tell the tale of the three bears and the little girl, so he had deliberately stepped on the other man's foot to distract him.

"We can talk about bears eating girls another time," he said quickly.

"The bears didn't eat _girls_, Strider. They ate porridge," said Logan. He seemed eager to tell the tale.

"Yes, but that is beside the point," said Aragorn. "We are here to ask you about yourself, not about bears that eat porridge. By the way, normal bears don't eat porridge unless they have no other choice; they'd much rather eat girls...or rangers." Why was he talking about the dietary habits of bears? The ranger shook his head. He was too tired for his own good. That hasty meal which they'd just eaten had not been restful; he had used a lot of energy in taking enough to fill his belly. Between Logan and the three other hobbits —well, two other hobbits; Sam had been too worried about Frodo to eat— it had been very hard to actually get any fare at all.

"So fire away," said Logan. He leaned back and stretched out his long legs, muddy boots and all, before him. "By the way, can I smoke in here?"

"Why do you men indulge in such foul habits?" asked Erestor. He didn't even bother to mask his disapproval.

"Just open some windows," advised Gandalf with a shrug. He did not sympathize much with the plight of the elven lords. "Logan's suggestion is a very good one. I might take it up myself." He pulled out his pipe from his baggy sleeve. "For your information, Master Logan, you can stop glaring at me like that. I am not a 'mag-nee-toe', whatever that is."

* * *

**A/N: **A lot of talking in this chapter. I hope you enjoyed it anyway. Next chapter will be very much Logan-orientated, and he will get to explain about himself (albeit in his own convoluted way). As always, advice and suggestions are welcome.


	7. There's Something About the Wolverine

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize. I'm just borrowing them for this little escapade.

**To 'IMBECILE WRITER' (sic) A.K.A. 'research before writing' (sic): **I did not delete your first review. I never delete reviews. It just got pushed down. Before you get angry and have to type in all-caps and resort to name-calling, you might want to check the review page. Both your reviews are still there, on page two or three or whatever page number they happen to be on. Did you really think that your review was so brilliant that it was going to stay on the first page forever?

By the way, thanks for pointing out the mistake to me. I must have misunderstood my teacher when she mentioned the meaning of hermaphrodite. I am grateful for your correction. And no, I won't stop writing and learning from people who are helpful and give good advice on how to write.

**Anon: **I read Logan's wiki page, and I saw the trailer for the upcoming 'Wolverine' movie, so most of my 'History of Logan' will be based on those. I'll only mention the pre-Stryker period briefly as in the movies, Logan's lost his memory, as you probably know, and that's really convenient, at least for me. :)

Thanks for the info about what Logan actually symbolizes. I hadn't known about that.

**i: **Logan actually doesn't know about the One Ring. Aragorn only told him about the nine, and he believed that story because he saw the Nazgûl and knew they weren't natural. He did smell that Gandalf wasn't Magneto, but the sight was probably overwhelming him, and he was tired. ;)

**Sharra: **I'm glad you're enjoying the story. I try my best to give Logan realistic reactions, because that's the sort of thing I like to read. If you have any suggestions about what you want him to experience in Middle Earth, or advice about how he should react, please don't hesitate to tell me.

_Thank you to all you kind reviewers who took your time to tell me how you feel about the story, and to give advice. I appreciate the feedback. _

**Chapter 7: There's Something About the Wolverine  
**

Logan blew out a stream of smoke, taking his time to savour the delicate flavours of his Cuban cigar. There wasn't much left of this one, and he only had two more left. He had to say that Elrond was very patient. In fact, the only other person who had ever been this patient had been Charles Xavier. "Well," he began, drawing out the vowel lazily. "I come from a really really different place to this."

"Yes?" said Strider, who seemed eager for him to elaborate.

Logan thought for a while. How was he going to approach this? He really wasn't in the mood to describe either Canada or New York in detail. "There are lots of tall buildings there," he said.

"What sort of buildings?" pressed Gandalf. "Towers? Castles? Forts?"

"Banks, and business buildings, and more business buildings...and hotels," said Logan.

"What's a 'hoe-tell'?" said Strider. He'd known that it would be confusing.

"It's like an inn, you know, only...bigger," said Logan. "But no, I didn't spend a lot of time in those. Wasn't rich enough, you see. It costs an arm and a leg to stay a night in a hotel."

"It does?" said Strider, who looked appalled. He wasn't the only one.

"Yeah, it's daylight robbery if you ask me," said Logan, completely oblivious to the fact that the ranger had misinterpreted him.

"Why would anyone stay in a 'hoe-tell' if that's the price?" asked Glorfindel.

"You know some people," said Logan. He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture, scattering a bit of cigar ash on the floor in the process. "They have enough money to drown in, and I'm not one of them."

"Money cannot buy you replacement limbs," said Strider.

"Actually, it can," said Logan, "but why would they need them?"

"You said it cost 'an arm and a leg' to stay in a hotel," Erestor reminded him.

"What—oh. Do I really have to explain everything to you people? It's just a saying that we have. It means that it costs a lot. Geez, do you really think that people would get amputations to live in a hotel? That's what hospitals are for."

"What is a 'hospital'?" asked Erestor. "Does it have anything to do with hospitality?"

"Well, I've heard that the food is awful," said Logan. Since he was going to do so much talking, then perhaps there wasn't enough time to properly enjoy his cigar. Why waste it then? He pressed the burning end of it against his hand, winced as the heat seared his flesh, and then continued on speaking, all the while getting great satisfaction from the disgusted looks which he was receiving from all assembled. Elrond, to his credit, had not reacted much.

"Can we open the windows a little wider please?" said Glorfindel. "Smoke is bad enough."

"Don't you eat meat, Goldilocks?" said Logan, unable to resist. He flashed a brilliant grin at the elf, who only scowled at him more. There was such a lot of satisfaction to be had from annoying dignified individuals.

"Logan, I am sorry to interrupt," said Strider, "but I thought we were talking about your life."

"Oh right," said Logan. "Anyway, we have these tall buildings, and the outside walls are all made out of glass...and big lengths of steel. They're so tall that they touch the sky, well, they don't really, but you know what I mean. At night, there are so many lights that it's just as bright as day, at least at ground level. Looking down from above, you'd think you were looking down on a nest of colourful fireflies. But the best bit is being in the dark bits, you know, where all the excitement happens..."

* * *

Aragorn felt a headache coming on. Logan had gone from describing his city to describing the establishments of disputable repute in his city. That was one detail that no one really needed to know about. Unfortunately, Logan had become very good at elaborating, and he was also very animated now. The man had gotten up, and was waving his hands around as he described those places in excruciating detail. And it really was excruciating. This was not the type of thing one spoke of in Lord Elrond's study.

"I beg your pardon, Master Logan," said Gandalf, stopping Logan in mid-sentence as he regaled them with a tale of one particularly colourful evening, "we have heard much of your city, but we still do not know much about you. Your claws, for example; how did you get those?"

"These?" said Logan. He extended his claws.

"Yes, those," said Elrond. "May I see them, Master Logan?"

Logan grinned. He didn't mind showing off his claws at all. Elrond probed at his hand with expert fingers, trying to determine where the claws actually began. "Can you retract them for me please?" said Elrond. Logan did so abruptly, causing Elrond to stiffen. The Wolverine's grin only widened. He liked having this effect on others. "I see no gaps for them to emerge through," said the elf in confusion.

"That's not a problem," said Logan. "The claws go through skin."

"Does it hurt?" asked Aragorn. He winced inwardly at the thought of those claws cutting through muscle and skin every time Logan extended or retracted his claws.

"Whaddya think?" said Logan.

"I'll take that as a yes," said the ranger.

"But that would make it most inefficient," said Elrond.

"It would be inefficient if one was normal, and Logan is not," said Strider.

"He's right, y'know," said Logan. "I heal quickly, and as for pain; well, it's an old friend."

"Whoever did this to you must have really hated you," said Glorfindel.

"He didn't really hate me," said Logan. "He just didn't like me. The feeling was mutual."

"What happened to him?" asked Aragorn. Knowing Logan, it wouldn't be nothing.

"Hey, he gave me these claws," said Logan, extending said claws again and waving them around just to remind everyone that he had them. "Of course I paid him back."

"What did you do, Logan?" said the ranger.

"I showed him how well these claws worked," said Logan. There was a dark glint in his eye, and a twisted sort of satisfaction. "Artists like to know that people appreciate their work."

"But why did he do it to you in the first place?" asked Glorfindel. "The only reason I can think of is immense hatred, and he did not hate you, you said."

"Well...it's like this." Logan told them about how he had once been a mercenary for a certain man named William Stryker. Apparently, this Stryker had promised to make him invincible, and Logan —who had not been called Logan back then— had somehow agreed to undergo a twisted experiment which involved cutting him open and incorporating a strange metal called 'Adamantium' into his skeleton. "I mean, as soon as it started, I regretted it, because it effing hurt," said Logan. "I only survived because of what I am. I'm what they call a mutant. I'm...not like other people."

"How did we guess that?" murmured Aragorn.

"I got myself the hell out of there, and tried to hide. Only they kept on coming after me. I lived in the wild," said Logan, ignoring the ranger's rhetorical question.

"If you lived in the wild, then how come you could not light a fire?" asked Aragorn.

"I can light fires, just not with flint," said Logan. "I used sticks and wood shavings, y'know, turning the wood around and around, and creating so much friction that the—"

"I meant no offence when I asked you, Logan," said Aragorn, afraid that he might have distracted Logan too much. "It was simply curiosity. I cannot imagine a world where men do not carry flint around with them at all times. Please, do carry on with your tale."

"Are there more of you out there?" asked Elrond. The elven lord looked thoughtful.

"Yeah," said Logan. "We all have different powers. My...friend Storm can control the weather. Chuck —that's the guy who helped me after I lost my memory for fifteen years— could read minds and control other people's thoughts. He once threatened to make me believe that I was a six year old girl for the rest of my life because I was smoking."

"I would love to know that little trick," said Glorfindel darkly. "It is a most effective threat, and very creative."

"Not to mention that it would probably save us from having to smell that noxious odour ever again," added Erestor.

"It's not noxious, you morons," said Logan. "You two just don't have any taste."

"Obviously this 'Chuck' shared our views," Erestor pointed out.

"Yeah, well, Chuck was just plain weird," said Logan.

"Yet you respect him," said Aragorn. "I can tell."

"He was weird, but he had good ideas, and he helped me," said Logan. "Besides, he genuinely wanted to help people. He was the one who ran the school for all those mutant kids."

"Why would young goats need schooling?" said a rather confused Erestor.

"He means children," said Aragorn, before the elves could misinterpret this too much and start laughing. Well, they were probably too dignified and polite to laugh, unlike Logan, but he needed Logan to talk about himself, not rant about his bruised ego. "That is what Logan's people call children."

"If I were a child, I would be insulted," said Erestor.

"None of the kids minded," said Logan. "It's just the way things are."

"This 'Chuck' sounds decent," said Gandalf. Up until now, he had said very little, for he was content with letting Aragorn do the questioning. The ranger knew Logan the best out of all of them and could probably ask better questions.

"They were all decent people in that school," said Logan. "I mean, Scott was just as prudish as you guys, but he was still decent, even if he did get on my nerves. Storm's just really protective of the kids and she'd do anything to keep them safe. And Jean..." He trailed off, and his eyes became glazed, as if he was seeing something which only he could see. The claws slowly retracted. Logan wandered back to his seat and sat down, resting his elbows on his knees, staring broodingly at the floor.

"Yes, I heard you shouting that name in your sleep that night at the _Prancing Pony_," prompted the ranger. "Who is Jean?"

"She was..." Logan struggled to find the appropriate words. He swallowed and closed his eyes. Then he took a deep breath and began again. "I loved her."

Silence greeted that declaration. Aragorn and Elrond exchanged glances; both of them knew what it was like to love a lady, and from Logan's wording, they could all deduce that she had either left him or died, or both. However, they stayed quiet, preferring to let Logan speak when he was ready.

"Jean was...special," said Logan. "It's so hard to explain. She was a doctor at the school—"

"Excuse me, but what is a doctor?" asked Aragorn.

Logan seemed so depressed that he didn't even bother to make fun of the ranger for not knowing the meaning of the word. "That's someone who heals others," he said.

"A healer," said Elrond. "Like Estel and I."

"Yeah, like you two, only she didn't use weeds," said Logan. "She was lovely and thoughtful and kind and sweet, and she was basically engaged to Scott. I never knew what she saw in him."

"You said Scott was decent," said Erestor.

"Sure, he was decent enough, but he was _boring_," said Logan. "Then again, it's rude to speak ill of the dead."

"What happened?" asked Aragorn. Logan sounded very jealous of this Scott, and he needed to distract the man before he launched another rant.

"So there was this one time when things got out of hand," said Logan. "This dam was breaking. We were all going to die; even me. No one ever said I couldn't drown."

"It is good to know that you are not completely invincible," said Glorfindel. "It makes you a little more tolerable."

"I am completely charming, thank you very much," said Logan. "But that's not really the point, even if it is an obvious truth. Anyway, we were all going to drown or get crushed by water, but Jean had powers. She could use her mind to move things, so she kept the water from coming at us just long enough for us to get away; but that didn't include her."

"She was a noble woman," said Elrond quietly.

"Yeah, she was," said Logan. "Only, she didn't really die."

"I thought you said that she did," said Glorfindel.

"That's what everyone thought, until she reappeared," said Logan. "I mean, there were tons of water coming down on her. According to some goddamned laws of Physics which I know nothing about, she should have been crushed. And if she hadn't been crushed, then she should have drowned. But Storm and I found her a couple of months later by the lake, looking as if she was sleeping. Oh, and the rocks were floating around in mid-air."

Aragorn wished that he hadn't been sipping water at that moment, for he sprayed his mouthful of water all over Logan when the floating rocks were mentioned. Logan leapt to his feet. "Hey! Watch where you're spitting!"

"I apologize," said Aragorn. "You took me by surprise."

"At least you didn't see the floating rocks," said Logan. "And we also found Scott's glasses."

To the inhabitants of Middle Earth, a 'glass' was a cup made out of glass, so they automatically assumed that 'glasses' referred to multiple cups made out of glass. Why were cups important to the story?

"I don't mean cups," said Logan. He seemed to have learned that there were a great number of things which Middle Earth did not have. "Glasses are these things which you wear over your eyes when you have eye problems, you know, to help you see better."

"Then I guess we elves will not know of them at all," said Glorfindel.

"All right! I know you're perfect. Stop rubbing it in my face," said Logan. "Anyway, Scott was never without his glasses because they stopped his eyes from shooting fire at everything —that was his power, you see, and he couldn't control it. He was never without those glasses, so when we found the glasses and not him, we knew that something was wrong. That was when we found Jean, lying there as if she was asleep and dreaming about me —she was smiling, you know."

"You are indeed humble, Master Logan," said Gandalf.

"All right, so maybe she was dreaming about Scott," grumbled Logan. "But I'd like to think it was me. So, anyway, regardless of what or who she was dreaming about, we took her back to the school and waited for her to wake up."

"Did she?" said Aragorn.

"Sure she did," said Logan wryly. "And that was some awakening. She looked at me, sat up, and then started making out with me, right there, in the hospital, on the surgery table."

"What did she just start doing?" asked Erestor.

"Uh...she started kissing me, you know, and she wanted to f...uh...how do I put this poetically...make love—"

"I do not think we need to know this bit," said Elrond rather abruptly.

"But you do," protested Logan. "That was a great moment, and besides, it's critical. You see, the Jean I knew would not have tried to get into my pants—uh—_charm_ me like that. She was a lot more subtle, and sophisticated. So I knew something was wrong, and I told her to stay there while I got help. Only she didn't like that, and she threw me against the wall."

"I am beginning to admire this woman very much," said Glorfindel.

"Yeah, she threw me against the wall without laying a hand on me," said Logan. That made Glorfindel pause.

"The mind power," guessed Aragorn.

"Exactly," said Logan. "Anyway, she just walked out, and we couldn't find her until it was too late."

"What happened to Scott?" said Erestor.

"My guess is that she turned him into dust, just like she turned all those other people into dust," said Logan.

"But why would she do that?" said an appalled Aragorn. "I thought she loved him."

"I didn't understand it either, but Chuck explained it to me," said Logan. He explained to them about how the woman had two sides; one good and one dark. When she had used her powers to stop the water, it had unleashed her dark side. Then she had joined Magneto, Logan's enemy who was most keen on world domination. With his powers over metal, and her being destructive in every sense of the word, they had created a very dangerous mixture. Aragorn was gripping the armrests of his chair so tightly that his knuckles were white. He could not help but feel pity for Logan. The man must have been in such a dilemma, and everyone knew that Logan did not have much skill when it came to analysing situations.

"What happened at the end?" asked Elrond.

"I couldn't let her go on destroying everything," said Logan. He raked his fingers through his hair. "I just had to stop her, and there was only one way to do it."

"How could you kill her?" said Glorfindel. "You wouldn't even be able to get near her. She was more or less indestructible."

"So am I," said Logan. He fell silent, and did not say anymore. He didn't need to. The meaning was clear. They could all feel his pain. Aragorn laid a hand on the other man's shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

"That was a brave thing that you did, Logan," said Gandalf.

"I hate myself for doing it, for not being strong enough to find another solution," said Logan.

"You should not blame yourself," said Elrond. "You did the only thing that you could have done, and you saved the world."

"I still hate what I did, and nothing that anyone says is going to make me feel better about it," muttered Logan. "Anyway, are we done yet? I'm hungry."

"I believe supper is waiting for us," said Elrond, standing up and pushing his chair back. Food was usually a very good cure for many things. And even if it could not cure Logan's heart, then at least it would make him feel a little better.

* * *

Supper was a muted affair, mostly due to the fact that everyone was worried about Frodo. There were, however, plenty of fine dishes to enjoy. Just because Merry and Pippin weren't in the best of moods didn't mean that they had lost their appetites. Logan could smell the food from a long way off, and the exotic aromas made him feel heady. He breathed in appreciatively. "You people might be some of the most unfriendly prudes I've ever met," he said, "but you sure know what the word 'hospitality' means."

"If we were unfriendly, Master Logan, then we would not be hospitable," said Elrond calmly as he took his place at the head of the table. The meal was taking place on a large balcony which overlooked the rest of the valley, and the balcony was lit by multitudes of lanterns around the edges. There were also a few candles on the table, carefully placed so that the wax would not drip on the food. The bronze candelabras depicted swans gracefully dipping their heads. The detail was so intricate that one could see the patterns of the swans' feathers, and if they hadn't had candles sticking out of them, they would have looked as if they were alive in the flickering light from the lanterns and the candles.

A sickle-shaped moon hung in the sky, casting a soft silver glow over everything. The waterfall sparkled as if it was a ribbon studded with diamonds, forever falling downwards. Somewhere, a cricket chirped, and it was answered by the hollow hoots of an owl.

Logan reached for a whole roast pheasant, ignoring the looks which some of the others were giving him. "If I believed in Heaven, I would have thought that I was there," he said as a he ripped a leg off the bird. The view was very nice and all, but food was more important. Grease and juice ran down his wrist. He licked up the trickle of liquid before it could go down his sleeve.

"Would you like a napkin, Master Logan?" said Gandalf.

"What's the point?" asked the mutant. "I don't want to waste any of this."

"I am glad that you appreciate food, but did you know that table manners are important too?" asked Strider.

Logan gave a nondescript grunt. He was too busy enjoying his meal to make proper syllables.

"Do you even care?" said the ranger.

"Probably not," said Logan. He extended one claw and proceeded to slice through the bird's body so that he could have a manageable portion.

"I think Logan would make a perfect ranger," declared one of the twins. Logan still had not figured out which was which, and he didn't really give a damn. All elves looked more or less the same anyway, apart from Goldilocks, who was blond.

"What makes you say that?" asked the other twin. The twin who had first spoken smirked at Strider, who simply rolled his eyes and ignored him.

"Well, he's gruff, reckless, with superior senses, and it is convenient to have cutlery incorporated into one's body when one is travelling in the wild. It saves having to with dirty fingers. What say you, Estel?"

"Elrohir, you have to remember that those claws have gutted a multitude of things, including men," said Strider mildly.

"Come to think of it," said Elrohir, "it is slightly nauseating when you put it that way."

"More than just slightly, Elrohir," said his brother. "Considering Logan's prowess, which Estel has told us about, there could be the blood of thousands on those claws, not to mention _other_ bodily fluids."

"Do you mind?" snapped Logan. "That's my supper you're talking about." These elves really were amazing creatures; somehow, they could make a hungry Wolverine lose his appetite.

* * *

Rivendell was utterly enchanting and otherworldly. Some would gladly spend the rest of their lives here, with only peace and quiet and beauty surrounding them. No stain from the outside world reached the abode of Lord Elrond, or so it seemed. It was timeless. But Logan was not content to remain. No, he was a creature of action and instinct. It was part of his nature to fight. Such serenity did not suit him, and he knew, just as everyone else knew, that he would get bored in this place soon enough.

Besides, he wanted to go home. He might have complained continuously about New York when he had been there, but the truth is, he actually liked being able to complain about it. He needed to return. The Wolverine did not belong with immortal and otherworldly elves who had great appreciation for fine art and all things beautiful. Well, he liked beautiful things too, but his idea of beauty was quite different from theirs. He was alone here; no one understood what he was. He could tell that they were still confused, and he didn't really blame them. After all, they didn't even know what cells were.

He strolled down the narrow winding paths aimlessly. As tired as he was, he could not sleep. He was too worried about getting home. Elrond and Gandalf had promised to try their best to send him back to New York, but he had a feeling that they were as confused as Strider was.

Logan was so immersed in his own thoughts that he didn't notice where he was going until he became aware that someone was watching him. His first reaction was to prepare for a fight, but then he remembered that this was Rivendell. Besides, he didn't smell the scent of fear that was usually there if someone was about to start a fight with him.

He looked around, and then he thought he was hallucinating. In his lifetime, Logan had seen a great many things, and never had he seen anyone or anything as beautiful as this vision. Granted, many of the things which he had seen had been ugly in the extreme, but he had not thought that there was something beautiful enough to mesmerize him in such a way.

The woman seemed to be gliding towards him. No, not a woman, but a goddess; if he was religious in any way, he would have said that she was Venus herself, only not naked the way most artworks depicted her, which was a pity. Her dark hair draped over her shoulders like a cape, and she seemed to glow from within. Long lashes framed her clear grey eyes. At first glance, one would have thought that she was in her early-twenties, but her eyes held so much wisdom that she could not possibly be so young. Logan quickly used his skills of deduction and concluded that she had to be an elf.

"Hey," he said, finally finding his voice. Elf or not, this was one extremely attractive female. He simply could not resist. No man could.

She dipped her head in reply to his greeting, if it could be called that. "You must be Master Logan," she said. Her voice was low and melodious, and very regal. "I have heard much about you."

"I'm sure you have," said Logan, grinning. "I have become quite notorious around these parts, haven't I?"

"Only you have called Lord Glorfindel effeminate and survived to tell the tale," said the lady solemnly. "No one else would have been brash enough."

"Goldilocks will have to try harder if he wants to kill me," said the mutant, drawing himself up to his full impressive height. He knew the effect he had on women. They were frightened and intrigued by him, and they were attracted to him because he was dangerous and exciting. Whether they stayed with him was another matter, but he usually never cared much about that. In fact, he hadn't cared about that part at all until he'd met Jean.

She laughed politely at his boast. It sounded like the clear bells of a cathedral tolling in the distance, only more beautiful. Heck, everything about her was absolute perfection. 'Eat your paintbrushes, Leonardo,' thought Logan. 'You painted the Mona Lisa, but I'm standing here talking to this girl who's ten thousand times better than the woman with no eyebrows.'

"Lord Glorfindel is a dangerous enemy to have," said the elven woman. She was so serious, so courteous...and so distant.

"Like he can scare me," scoffed Logan in an attempt to make her warm up to him. "Hey, you know my name, but who are you ... uh... my lady?" Well, if he was to win the fair lady's heart, there was no harm in overdoing the courtesies.

"I am Arwen, daughter of Elrond and of Celebrian, who is the daughter of Lady Galadriel of the Golden Wood."

"Hold it!" said Logan with a laugh. "I can only absorb so much information at once! Anyway, I was too busy listening to your voice...my lady."

"All that is of no importance," she said. "You only need to remember that I am the daughter of Elrond, and of his wife, Celebrian. However, I must warn you that Glorfindel is a very powerful elven lord. You might not think much of him now, but he will make you change your mind."

"And the sun's gonna rise from the east—I mean, the west," said Logan.

"Are you really so certain of your own prowess?"

"Sure. You wanna come and see me prove it?"

Arwen raised an eyebrow at him in incredulity. Her expression, however, did not have quite the same effect as her father's. It only encouraged Logan more. He leaned in closer. "Do I get a prize if I win, hmm?"

"Very smooth, Logan," said a voice from behind him. The Wolverine had been so busy flirting that he had not been paying attention to what had been going on around him. Now he regretted that, for the voice was very familiar, and it sounded hostile.

"Hey, Strider," he said, turning around. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"Apparently not," said the ranger. His eyes were dark, and there was no amusement in them. "I was not expecting you either." Flanking him were the twin sons of Elrond, and they looked murderous. At least, that was what Logan assumed. With elves, it was awfully hard to tell.

"Estel!" said Arwen. Her delight was obvious. She quickly pushed past Logan and embraced Strider. "I am so glad that you are safe."

"As am I, Arwen," said the ranger. He seemed to have almost forgotten about Logan, for he was smiling with such pure joy that he seemed a lot younger than his eighty-seven years. He wrapped his arm around her waist, and she leaned into him, tilting her face upwards to look at him, before his lips met hers in one of the most passionate and heated kisses which Logan had ever seen. And Logan had seen a lot of kisses.

Suddenly, everything fell into place. No wonder Strider had been so angry, and no wonder Arwen had been so cold. "Honestly, Strider," said Logan. "I didn't know that she was your girl."

"Excuse me?" said one of the twins. Wait...if Arwen was the daughter of Elrond, then these twin sons of Elrond would be...her brothers. Ah, bother. As if the protective lover was not enough, he had to deal with protective brothers as well. And he really didn't want to stab these people. Both Elrond and Strider had been kind to him, and he was too tired to clean up such big messes.

"I meant no offense, really," he said, holding up his hands. "It's okay. I'm just gonna back away, all right?"

"I think that's a very good idea," said Strider, with a little less animosity.

"Hey, you really can't blame me. I didn't know," said Logan. "Really, I just saw a pretty girl, and I thought, why the heck not?"

"Master Logan," said one of the twins. "You are making things worse."

"You must be tired after such a long journey," said the other twin, quickly interrupting. That must be Elladan. He was usually the one diffusing tense situations. Logan had picked up that little pattern. "Why don't you go and get some rest? We shall see you in the morning."

"Yeah, I'll go and do that," he said, grateful that someone was giving him a way out of this mess. "You guys enjoy your evening."

"Do you need someone to take you back to your room?" asked Elladan.

"No, no, I'll be fine," said Logan. "And Strider?"

"Yes?" said the ranger.

"Nice catch, pal." With that, Logan strode back down the path, retracing his steps. All the while, he was cursing his bad luck. Why did all the pretty ones have to be taken? 'At least Strider has some sense of humour,' he thought. With nothing to do, and no one to talk to, Logan headed for the room which had been allotted to him.

It was easily large enough to be a highly expensive room if he had been in a hotel. The mattress was once again straw-stuffed, and he was glad that he did not have hay fever. There were hangings on the wall; these depicted scenes from great battles past. One of them even had a dragon in it. He had to be impressed with how realistic the woven dragons looked. It was as if whoever had woven it had seen a dragon. Wait, were there dragons in Middle Earth? After all, if there were elves and wizards, and hobbits, then why couldn't there be dragons?

The next tapestry was one of a great city. Or it could have been a very large wedding cake. Logan really couldn't tell. It was pale, and had many tiers. The only thing which indicated that it wasn't really a cake was the rest of the picture, which had vast green plains with armies marching across them. Unless someone had an infatuation with toy soldiers and furry green tablecloths, then Logan was pretty sure that it was a fortress city of some sort.

A basin stood in the corner of the room, with a jug full of water beside it, and a tray of scented soap. Logan ignored the soap and splashed his face with water. He could have a proper bath later, after he'd slept. He was not in the mood for soaks, whether they were hot or cold, long or short.

Removing his boots, he tossed them to one side. The dirt encrusted jeans came off too. The leather jacket was flung over the back of the chair, and his filthy torn t-shirt was left on the floor. He felt a little guilty about dirtying the crisp linen sheets, but then decided that Elrond probably paid the servants to clean up after him, and that he shouldn't worry. If he was so clean, then those servants wouldn't need to work for their pay, and Elrond wouldn't need so many servants, so therefore some servants would be sacked. All in all, he was doing those servants a favour, or so he convinced himself. He lay down and closed his eyes.

The sound of the waterfall in the distance lulled him to sleep.

* * *

**A/N: **Sorry about the relatively short chapter this week. I was stuck in a rut, and I was also trying to work on some assignments. I know this chapter is full of dialogue about Logan's recent past. If that bored you, then I apologize in advance. Now that we're in Rivendell, Logan can start meeting the other characters, and I have quite a good idea for the Council of Elrond. However, if you have advice and/or suggestions, please don't hesitate to tell me. I take every review into consideration. And if you spot any mistakes, please do inform me ASAP. I tend to miss typos when I proofread, and would be grateful if people pointed out those embarrassing mistakes so I can fix them.

**Note to all: **If you're going to leave deprecating notes about my person, and not just comment on the story, then save yourself the bother and the potential embarrassment. You probably have better things to do with your time, and I certainly would rather not read reviews which have nothing whatsoever to do with my stories. Have a problem with me as a person? I have a blog, and you can find the link on my profile. Contact me there. Or, you could log in and send me a signed PM if you've got the guts to deal with the reply.


	8. Soldiers and Spies

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize. I'm just borrowing them for this little escapade.

**Mary-emy: **It was very sad when Logan killed Jean. The atmosphere of that part was inspired by an X-Men fanvid on YouTube made to the song 'What I've Done'.

**Sharra: **Last chapter wasn't my favourite either. I hope you enjoy this one a bit more. Still not much action, but there is some development. I'll leave you to decide.

**Ranchi Blade: **I'm glad you're enjoying it, and no, I'm not going to stop writing anytime soon. I enjoy it too much, even if writer's block can get to me.

**GovernorDerek: **Glad you like the story. I update every Friday, unless something really bad has happened. If you're interested, I have another crossover series, and you might want to check them out, if you so wish.

_Thank you all for your reviews and advice. I really do appreciate it. _

**Chapter 8: Soldiers and Spies**

Excitement was evident. All over Rivendell, people were talking, whispering, exchanging glances. Frodo was awake. Logan had the distinct feeling that something big was about to happen, but as he knew very little about this place, he could not really even guess what it was all about. Not that he wasn't glad that Frodo was awake. He was as relieved as the rest of them. However, these elves —and the few humans and hobbits— acted as if it was something much bigger.

While it was celebration worthy, everyone seemed to be treating it as if it was D-Day, or something along those lines. Perhaps he was just out of it. After all, he had no idea what was going on, not that it was a new revelation. He wandered down the path with his hands hooked into the band of his —borrowed— breeches. Everything he was wearing was a bit too tight, for there was hardly anything in Rivendell that would fit him, and he absolutely refused to wear floor-length robes.

He stared at the ground, kicking at stones randomly. After the novelty had worn off, most of the elves simply ignored him. That was fine with him, except he was getting bored. Strider was out doing some scouting project with his two brothers, and the hobbits...well, he had very little in common with them, apart from the fact that he liked meals. But to converse with them on more serious subjects? He doubted that they would understand him, or that he would understand them.

Logan was so involved in his own brooding that he did not notice the other man who was striding around the corner towards him. And that man was not Strider. The mutant collided with the stranger, who seemed to be in a bit of a hurry. It was apparent that neither of them had been looking, for they both seemed to be under the impression that they were being attacked. Logan's claws came out, and the other man unsheathed his sword.

The stranger struck, and Logan blocked the downward swipe with the blunt edges of his claws, before lunging forward with his other hand outstretched, aiming for the man's chest. Whoever the stranger was, he was good, for he dodged out of the way rather deftly. However, Logan did manage to trap the blade of his sword in his claws.

"Who the hell are you, and why did you try to attack me?" he demanded.

"I should ask the same of you," retorted the other man. There were dark shadows under his eyes, but there was no mistaking the haughty tone and the handsome hard face. This was a man who was used to giving orders and having those orders obeyed. Logan recognized leaders, and this was one such man. However, Logan was not easily intimidated.

"I'm a guest here, and _you_ were the one drawing a sword on me," said Logan.

"I am also a guest here, being an ambassador of Gondor," said the stranger. "To my knowledge, it was you who attacked me."

Logan wasn't sure what he meant by an ambassador of condors, but the man sounded important. At least, he sounded as if he thought he was important. Perhaps he ought to be careful around him, in case he really was important. "I can't trust you on your word alone," he growled. "You're comin' with me to see Lord Elrond, and if he says you're trustworthy, then I let you go. If not, you're gonna wish you'd never been born."

"That suits me perfectly," said the stranger. "I have just met Lord Elrond, and he will assure you that I am his guest."

Logan marched the man through the winding paths and corridors of Imladris, claws still extended, just in case the stranger tried anything. The man, however, managed to maintain his dignity and seemed to pretend that Logan was his bodyguard, or something like that. The elves whom they passed gave them odd looks, but no one commented. Presumably, they knew better than to question the intentions of the Wolverine.

"Logan, what are you doing with the Gondorian Ambassador?" Logan saw Gandalf striding down the corridors. For an old man, he certainly was very agile.

"This man attacked me, and he says he's the ambassador of condors, whatever that means," said Logan. "I'm taking him to see Lord Elrond to confirm his story."

"You don't need to do that," said Gandalf. "I'll confirm his story right now." He turned to the stranger. "Lord Boromir, I am sure that this is just a terrible misunderstanding. Logan is a stranger to Rivendell, much like yourself, and he means no harm."

"You don't really know that, Gandalf," said Logan. "You just want to think that I'm harmless."

"I see no reason to doubt you, Logan," said the wizard patiently, "just as I see no reason to doubt Lord Boromir. You can put away your claws now, Logan. Boromir is a friend."

"Claws?" asked Boromir sharply, glancing at Logan. Logan deliberately held up his hand so that the man could see very clearly that the lengths of metal protruded from between his knuckles. Then he snorted and did as the wizard told him. After all, Gandalf had not grown angry when Logan had tried to kill him, and that had gained Logan's respect.

"Boromir, this is Logan Howlett," said Gandalf, indicating the mutant. "Logan, this is Lord Boromir of Gondor, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor."

"Condors have human stewards?" asked Logan.

"I presume that by 'human', you mean man," said Gandalf. "Indeed, the Steward of Gondor is a man. He can hardly be an elf."

"But condors are giant birds that eat carrion," said Logan.

"Perhaps _Condors_ are giant birds," said Gandalf. "But _Gondor_ is a country. For someone with such sharp hearing, Logan, you do mishear a lot of words."

"Is this Gondor place far away?" asked Logan.

"Very far," said Boromir. For someone who'd just been attacked, he looked awfully calm. "It took me nigh on four months to reach Rivendell. Of course, there were many tribulations along the way, and I lost my horse. That contributed to the delay, amongst other things."

"Geez, whatever you're here for, it must be important," said Logan, looking Boromir up and down. People in his world simply didn't make four month journeys, unless they were trying to go to Mars or something like that. It was beyond his comprehension. Suddenly, he was rather impressed. Boromir must have been exhausted, and yet he had been quite an agile fighter. He quickly decided that the other man must be involved in some sort of military organization. Logan understood soldiers. Heck, he'd been one himself, for several wars, not that he actually remembered those details, but the basic premise was more or less the same. Boromir was as out of place amongst the elves as he was.

"My mission is of utmost secrecy, Master Logan," said Boromir. "Unless Lord Elrond says otherwise, you will have to understand that I cannot reveal the nature of my mission to you."

"Ah, you're some sort of secret service?" guessed Logan. "Like, are you a spy?"

"I am no spy," said Boromir, drawing himself up to his full height. His eyes flashed dangerously, and a vein on his forehead was throbbing.

"All right, I get it," said Logan hastily. "I was just asking, and there's nothing wrong with being a spy. I mean, serving your country is a noble task, no matter what you're actually doing, right?"

Sensing that things were about to become tense again, Gandalf stepped in to divert the conversation. "Lord Boromir, have you eaten yet? After such a long journey, you must be in need of nourishment."

"A hot meal would be most welcome," said Boromir. He understood perfectly well what the wizard was trying to do, and he was also in no mood for another fight. Besides, he had a feeling about this man, Logan. Since the wizard seemed to feel that he was trustworthy, then he had no reason to be suspicious. Perhaps he was merely brash and blunt. Boromir understood rash men who spoke their minds. Many soldiers were like that. He admired them, and he also knew that once he won their loyalty, he had it forever. They were like that. While this man, Logan, might have claws and the oddest accent he had ever heard, he was not so different from those men back in Gondor. Moreover, he was another man who did not belong amongst the mysterious and refined elves. That made Boromir feel a bit better about him. And, as much as he hated to admit it, he was curious about this strange man with metal claws. "Would you care to join me, Gandalf, and...Logan, is it?"

"That's my name," said Logan. "And yeah, I'd like some more food. I'm not hungry, but Elrond's cooking is great...I mean, his food is great...you know what I mean, right?"

"I have heard rumours of the cuisine of Rivendell," said Boromir, "although I have yet to truly savour the art." He gave Logan a small but sincere smile, to show that he held no grudge against him. Logan grinned back and held out his hand.

"Truce?" he said.

"Truce," agreed Boromir. He wasn't sure what the extended hand was for, but he had a feeling that he was supposed to grasp said offered hand. He did so. Logan shook it. His grip was like that of iron manacles, not that Boromir had ever worn iron manacles.

"You know what, Boromir?" said Logan. "I think we can be friends."

* * *

He sat on the garden bench, twirling an unlit cigar between his fingers as he watched the hobbits interact. They tended to stay close to one another, and didn't really have much to do with the elves, although he did catch Sam staring at them occasionally. Frodo still seemed rather pale and frail, but he was laughing heartily with the others as Pippin regaled him with tales about everything that had happened since the older hobbit had been stabbed by the 'morgue blade'.

"Logan, won't you join us?" said Merry. "We were just telling Frodo about you and Glorfindel, and how you said he looked neither male nor female."

"I still cannot believe that you did that," said Frodo, shaking his head. He went over to sit beside the mutant on the garden bench, where he was joined by the rest of the hobbits. Hobbits did not take up much room, and the bench was long.

"It was a very valid point," said Logan, shrugging. "What more can I say?"

"Didn't your mother teach you that if you don't have anything nice to say, then you shouldn't say anything?" asked Pippin.

"I don't remember my mother," said Logan.

"Oh, I'm sorry," said the youngest hobbit. "I didn't mean to..."

"No, no, it doesn't matter," said Logan with a wave of his hand. "Don't worry about it."

"Who brought you up?" asked Merry.

"I don't know," said Logan. "I don't remember that either. I've lost my memory."

"Oh."

To the hobbits, this was distinctly queer. How could anyone simply not remember anything? They'd never heard of such an occurrence. "Maybe Gandalf can help you," said Pippin. "He has lots of good ideas."

"Gandalf would love to help," said a voice. "But he needs to know more." Somehow, the wizard had arrived without anyone noticing him. He leaned on his staff as if he needed it for support. His old face was careworn, and beneath his bushy eyebrows, his eyes were kind. It seemed that he had forgiven Logan for trying to kill him.

"How did you get here without me hearing you?" asked Logan.

"You were preoccupied, Master Logan," said the wizard, "and I can be quiet when I want to." He turned to the hobbits. "Frodo, Bilbo is anxious to see you."

"Where is he?" said Frodo, perking up. He leapt to his feet, looking around in every direction. As he moved, Logan noticed the sun reflecting off a thin chain around the hobbit's neck. He paid it no more attention. After all, it was perfectly normal to wear jewellery. Even he'd worn a dog tag around his neck for a while, before he'd returned it to the man who'd given it to him.

"He is in the rose garden yonder," said Gandalf, looking in the direction of said garden. "You'll find him sitting on a stone bench, and he's probably fallen asleep by now, knowing him."

The hobbits all seemed eager to see this Bilbo, and they hastily excused themselves, after promising to invite Logan and Gandalf to afternoon tea. Gandalf slowly sat down on the recently vacated garden bench next to Logan. "I meant what I said, Logan," said the wizard. "I do want to help you to get back home, but I need to know more about you; not where you came from, but you."

"I wish I knew more about myself, but as you know, I'm just beginning to get my memory back," said Logan.

"What do you remember?" asked the wizard. He pulled a long pipe out of his sleeve, and then lit it using flint and his tinderbox. The plant which he smoked smelled strange, but it was not unpleasant. Logan looked at the pipe, but he wasn't really seeing that pipe. He was seeing some other pipe, from long ago, with a shorter stem and a wider bowl. He'd seen that pipe...somewhere, although he could not remember where. He frowned as he struggled to put together a more complete picture.

Gandalf mistook the look for a desire to smoke, and he offered his pipe to Logan. The mutant took it carefully. "I don't think I've smoked a pipe before," he said. "But this reminds me of something."

"What does it remind you of?" asked Gandalf. He seemed encouraged.

"Another pipe," said Logan.

"Who did that pipe belong to?"

"I don't remember." Oh well, since he was holding the pipe, he might as well try smoking it. He sucked in the smoke. The flavour was rather pleasant on his tongue. He breathed out slowly, and then took another pull before handing the pipe back to Gandalf.

"What else do you remember?" asked the wizard. "Anything specific?"

"I don't really have anything specific," said Logan. "I just get these flashes of pictures in my head. I see lots of fighting, most of the time, but the people are dressed in clothes from different periods." He laughed wryly. "I guess I was in a lot of wars."

"I believe you would make a fine soldier, yes," said Gandalf.

"It's rather handy for a soldier to not be able to die, I guess," said Logan. "But apart from those images, I only remember agreeing to do that operation, and waking up after it. Then I remember those fifteen years before I met Chuck, but you know about those already."

"How did you come here?" asked Gandalf.

"I don't really know," said Logan. "One moment, I was falling, and the next thing I knew, I'd fallen into a pile of leaves, and Strider was pointing a sword at me."

"How curious," said the wizard. He blew out a few rings of smoke. "Did you get any strange feelings while you were falling?"

"Dude! I was falling to my death! I wasn't really thinking of much, except about how much I hated Magneto."

Gandalf chuckled. "A very valid point, Logan, but not very helpful," he said.

"At least now you know why I tried to kill you," said the Wolverine.

"Aye, that I do," said Gandalf. "But knowing that is not going to help me send you home at all."

"I guess not," said Logan. He sighed. "Do you think I'll ever get back? I mean, no one seems to know how I got here, least of all myself, and no one has even heard of New York, which is just strange, if you ask me."

"Most of us find you rather odd, Master Logan," said Gandalf.

"I'll take that as a compliment, thank you," said Logan, grinning at the wizard. He was beginning to like him, despite the fact that he could be Magneto's twin if the two had been of the same species. "I value my uniqueness."

"So I see," said the wizard, returning the grin. "But you must be careful, Logan. Uniqueness makes one stand out, and I do not think that it is always a good thing to be noticeable. For one, it makes you easier to find."

"I'm not hiding, Gandhi, so I don't care if someone finds me," said Logan.

"Logan, did anyone ever tell you that it is not polite to give someone a nickname when they have not given you permission?" Gandalf gave him a stern look from beneath his bushy eyebrows, as if he was trying to teach a child some manners. Obviously no one had bothered about that when Logan had still been young enough to learn.

"I don't _need_ permission, pal. Besides, you should be grateful that I called you 'Gandhi' and not 'Gander'." Logan's grin was very wide.

"Logan, if you so much as breathe the latter, I _will _turn you into a toad."

"Not a six year old girl?"

* * *

Gandalf and Logan were still deep in discussion when Sam, Merry and Pippin returned, bearing trays of food and drinks. There was a large round sticky golden cake, a platter of delicate little pastries with assorted fillings, an entire smoked ham, a variety of cold cuts, and a mountain of bread and biscuits. As well as that, Pippin was bearing a tray on which there were two teapots with steam issuing from their spouts. "Guess what I brought?" he asked excitedly.

"What are you up to now, Peregrin Took?" asked Gandalf in an exaggerated tone of exasperation.

"Don't be such a spoilsport, Gandalf," said the young hobbit, who was not at all perturbed. "I have some pretty good tricks up my sleeve. Anyway, Logan, you are going to love me."

"That could sound really dodgy, you know," said the mutant. He sniffed appreciatively. The food smelled delectable, as it should be, as it had all come from the kitchens of the extremely refined Lord Elrond. However, there was one scent in particular which caught his attention. It was familiar, and he liked it very much; only, he didn't dare to believe himself.

"It's coffee!" announced Pippin, unable to wait any longer. "I got it just for you, Logan, although Bilbo likes it quite a bit."

"Pippin, I love you," said Logan.

"Yes, he is rather lovable, is he not?" said a thin reedy voice. Logan turned around to see Frodo approaching them, supporting a very old hobbit. The old one's hair was completely white, and that was including the foot hair, although he still had quite a bit of it. His back was stooped, but his eyes were bright. "Let me guess," he said. "You must be Logan."

"How'd you know?" asked Logan.

"Oh, I have heard of you from various people. You have become quite famous, my lad," said the hobbit. "Or, should I say, infamous?" He wagged his finger at Logan in mock disapproval.

"I'm the Wolverine," said Logan, spreading his arms. "I shouldn't be anything else."

"See, Bilbo?" said Pippin as he set down his tray on the blanket which Frodo was spreading out upon the flagstones. "I told you that you'd get along." He began to pour cups of tea for everyone. "Logan, Bilbo's quite infamous back in the Shire, in some ways. You should ask him about his adventures."

"No, you should not," said Gandalf, accepting a cup of tea from the youngest hobbit. "If you get him started, we will be here until midnight."

"Now, now, Gandalf, my dear friend," said Bilbo. "Indulge an old hobbit. Anyway, if you did not insist on telling your version of events, which, I might add, do not seem very accurate, then it would take a lot less time."

Logan poured himself a cup of coffee and took a deep drink, which resulted in him burning his tongue. "It's hot!" he cried.

"Of course it's hot," said Pippin. "No one drinks cold coffee."

"In my place they do," muttered Logan. "It's called _frappuccino_. Mind you, only Starbucks serves it." The conversation switched from Bilbo's adventures to the food of Logan's world. The hobbits seemed most envious of all the delicacies which seemed only to exist in the world of the Wolverine.

"I really really want to try a 'dough-nut'," said Pippin wistfully. "You wouldn't by any chance know how to make them, would you, Logan?"

* * *

The sun shone on his face, waking him. Logan groaned and blindly reached for a pillow with which he could cover his face. He felt no incentive to get up. Breakfast was probably long over, and besides, he was going to join the hobbits for second breakfast. There was a knock on his door. The mutant took away the pillow and glanced out the window. Surely it was too early for second breakfast.

"Logan?" That was not a hobbit. It sounded more like...Strider. "Logan, wake up."

"I'm awake!" groaned Logan as he swung his legs over the edge of the rather comfortable bed. He'd slept well for the past few nights. Perhaps there was something in the air of Rivendell, but he wasn't getting as many nightmares as before. "What's going on? Is there a fire or something?" After their arrival in Rivendell, he hadn't seen much of the ranger. Presumably, Strider had been spending time with his very pretty girlfriend. The Wolverine couldn't exactly blame him for that.

"No, there isn't a fire," said Strider. "I was wondering if you would like to join my brothers and I in a sparring session."

"Sparring, as in verbal sparring or physical sparring?" asked Logan. He pulled on his now-clean jeans and a shirt which had been kindly lent to him by the only other man in Rivendell, namely Strider. It was a little tight around the shoulders, as he was broader than the other man, but if he left the top buttons undone, it fit well enough. Well, it was acceptable, at any rate. He opened the door. Apparently, Strider cleaned up rather well. In fact, he didn't look much like the scruffy ranger anymore, now that he was wearing well made clothing with swirly leafy patterns on them. To say that he looked like an elf would be going a bit too far, but Logan had a feeling that his friend —and Strider was a friend of sorts— would not look out of place in a Hollywood film about the Middle Ages or Renaissance or whatever period it was when they fought with swords.

"It'll probably be both, knowing my brothers," said Strider, "but the main objective is physical sparring."

"Then I'm in," said Logan. He was rather grateful for that suggestion. Apart from talking to the hobbits, wandering around Rivendell, eating and sleeping, he had done very little in the past few days. Oh, and he had tried to flirt with several elven women. It was rather hard to tell whether he was successful or not, for he could not really gauge their reactions.

"I knew you'd agree," said Strider with a grin. "I might not have seen you much in the past few days, but I have heard enough to know that you are extremely bored."

"Am I really that bad?" said Logan.

"According to several elves, yes," said Strider. "I'd like to mention that most of these elves have sisters." He raised an eyebrow at the mutant, who tried not to grin.

"Well, can't really help it if I'm attractive," he said.

"They find you more exotic than attractive," said Strider. "Most elves in Rivendell are not used to men, and certainly not to someone like you, with—"

"With claws? Yeah, I get what you mean."

"I was going to say with your strange mannerisms, but yes, those claws are very odd, and rather threatening."

"I haven't been showing them off! Not since that time when I was about to do Goldilocks in anyway."

"And I commend you for that, but everyone knows about them." Strider slapped Logan on the shoulder. "I know it's not your fault, but they are wary of you, as they have every right to be. A word of advice; try not to make yourself so noticeable. Common courtesy, such as not giving others nicknames without their permission, would not go amiss."

"You sound like a teacher," grumbled Logan.

"And you _are_ a teacher," said the ranger. "I shudder to think of how your pupils would behave."

"Actually, they're very well-behaved, most of the time," said Logan. "Or perhaps they just didn't want to get into my bad books. It's kinda hard to tell, y'know. Kids can be devious, but that's all part of the fun." Elves dipped their heads in greeting as they passed the two men. Strider returned the greetings. He was a natural at all of this. "So, how did you get two elves for brothers anyway?"

"They are not my brothers by blood," said the ranger. He seemed a little uncomfortable talking about it. Logan, however, did not care. After all, if he could pour out most of his life's story to Strider and his various friends, then Strider could very well tell him about his siblings. "Lord Elrond is my foster father."

"What happened to your real parents?" asked Logan.

"They have passed on," said the ranger. "My father died when I was but a small child. My mother brought me here. Lord Elrond was a good friend of my father's."

"Well, it does pay to have rich friends," said Logan. It probably wasn't a bad way to grow up, here in Rivendell. Elrond would have been a kind father. He seemed to be a very patient person.

They'd arrived at the practise fields. The ground was covered with sand, which would absorb the impact if someone fell. It also meant that there would not be so much mud after it rained. "Elladan, Elrohir," said Strider. "You're early."

"No, you're late," retorted one of the twins with a grin. Once again, Logan could not tell whether he was Elladan or Elrohir. "And I see you brought a partner."

"I thought Logan would enjoy this," said the ranger. "Anyway, I was hoping that you two could have a competition."

"A competition sounds good," said the elf. He turned to Logan. "One very important thing; we don't use claws."

"All right, I get it," said Logan. "No claws. Not that you'd be able to beat me in a fair fight anyway." He crossed his arms and planted his feet firmly on the ground. The elves were tall, but he was broader and heavier. And a metal enforced skeleton worked wonders during fights.

"Master Logan, I do know what is on your mind," said the elf. He handed Logan a sword, much like the one Strider was now holding. The blade alone was about three feet long, and with the added length of the hilt, it was longer than a hobbit was tall. Logan suddenly got the image of someone waving a hobbit around in a fight. It was a very strange image, and he had to stop himself from grinning like an idiot.

He gave the sword in his hand some experimental swings. He might not remember using such a weapon before, but the feel of the momentum and air resistance somehow felt familiar to him. Logan deduced that it was because he had used sticks to hit others during a great number of occasions.

"Is it too heavy?" asked one of the twins. Of course he would have known that Logan would not find the weapon to be too heavy, but he seemed to enjoy irritating the man, just as much as Logan enjoyed irritating noble and regal elves like Glorfindel.

"I wouldn't know," retorted Logan. "Would you like me to take an experimental swing at you and find out?"

"I'd like to see you try," said the elf.

"Elrohir," began Strider. "Perhaps it would be better to determine how well Logan can use the sword first. This could be dangerous."

"What do you think I am doing, Estel?" asked Elrohir. "How are we going to find out how well he fights if someone doesn't test him?"

"I was thinking of calling out numbers and making him go through the moves first," said the other twin, Elladan.

"Where's the fun in that?" asked Logan. He was holding the sword as if he was a Jedi and it was a light sabre. Well, the Jedi were pretty good fighters, at least in the movies. The choreographer wouldn't have made the actors go through those moves if they weren't useful in a real fight, would he? Oh well, it didn't matter. He would just take things as they came. That usually worked well enough, unless one was dealing with Magneto.

Logan might not remember using a sword, but his body certainly did. As Elrohir darted out suddenly, he sidestepped and parried the blow. The elf was quick. As soon as that move got thwarted, he swung around the other way and almost managed to get under Logan's guard, except Logan brought his sword up just in time. The Wolverine soon got tired of defending himself. The best defence, at any rate, was an offence. He charged at the elf and took a wild swing.

* * *

"Are you sure that this is a good idea?" asked Aragorn nervously as he and Elladan watched Elrohir and Logan go about their very dangerous game. Both of them wanted to win, and that only made them deadlier. Logan had taken off his shirt, and sweat was running down his body. The sheen only made the shadows created by his rippling muscles even more obvious.

"Elrohir is faster than your friend," said Elladan. "I am sure that he will manage."

"And Logan?"

"He will probably recover from any injury that he sustains," said the elf. "You yourself told me about how he healed."

"His body heals, but he doesn't forgive that easily," said Aragorn. "Look what happened to the man who tried to cut him into halves."

"I'm sure they both know how to reign in their tempers," said Elladan. "They are both adults, after all—Logan, you're using a _sword_. Stop wielding it as if you're trying to hit him with a stick! Jab with it! It's got a tip, for goodness' sake!"

Logan didn't even blink, even though he must have heard the elf. He automatically did as Elladan had advised, and Elrohir only just managed to leap out of the way.

The spectacle had drawn various other people to the practise fields. Amongst them was the ambassador from Gondor, Boromir, the son of Denethor. Aragorn had only spoken to him once. The two nodded to each other politely, but did not exchange words. Their focus was on Logan and Elrohir. The fight was growing more heated, and more competitive. If it went any further, there was truly a risk of someone getting hurt.

"All right, I think we've seen enough," said Aragorn, before anything bad could happen. Logan nodded. Sweat gleamed on his bare skin, and he was breathing heavily. He handed the sword back to Elladan.

"That was a good fight," he said, picking up his shirt off the ground and using it to wipe his face. "You might look like a girl, but you fight better than many men." Everyone waited for Elrohir or Elladan to react to that statement, but Elladan simply ignored it, and Elrohir just sighed.

"I don't know whether to be pleased or offended," said Elrohir. "But I will tell you this, Master Logan; you are not so bad yourself. I'm impressed." The elf was breathing a little more heavily than usual, but other than that, he looked completely composed. This was another mystery about elves which Logan was completely unable to comprehend.

"It was a fight well fought," said Elladan. "Truly, Logan, I did not know you were so good with a sword."

"I didn't either," said Logan. "It must be something which my body remembers, but my mind doesn't." He clapped Elrohir on the shoulder. "I think I'll go get some breakfast now, and I'll fight you again on another day. Next time, I'll win."

"You can always hope, I guess," said the elf. "But do go get your breakfast. I would hate it if you collapsed from hunger; it will not be much of a victory if I won a fight against a starving man. Now, Elladan, we have to find Ada. He said there was something he wanted to talk to us about." The twins and Strider went off in search of Elrond, and the crowds were dispersing, leaving Logan standing there, wondering about where his sword skills had come from.

"You saw the whole thing?" he asked Boromir, who had remained behind.

"I saw most of it," replied the man. "It was quite impressive, Logan. I must ask you whether you've been at war before."

"I have," said Logan. "I don't remember much of it, but all the same, I'd rather not talk about it."

"That is understandable," said Boromir. "You despise it?"

"Who doesn't?" said Logan. He snorted. "War's an ugly thing, from what I remember of it, and it's a complete waste. I don't really know why people insist on doing this sort of thing."

"Sometimes, war is unavoidable," said Boromir softly. His eyes stared straight in front of him, but he was not seeing Rivendell. Instead, he was remembering all those battles which he'd fought in defence of his people. He'd been doing this for so long that he'd accepted it was going to be part of his life forever. However, some part of him still had hope that it would one day stop. It was a vague hope, but it was there.

"Well, I know that," said Logan. "Although, I don't see why you people need to fight wars. I mean, how much conflict can this world have?"

"There is much that you do not see, Logan," said Boromir. "In time, you will come to understand."

* * *

They were all whispering about something. Well, at least Strider and Boromir were whispering. Elladan and Elrohir were communicating with a secret code of looks. Elrond and Gandalf were conversing quietly in some form of elvish, and even Frodo, who had regained much of his spirits, was unusually silent. No amount of persuasion from Merry and Pippin would make him reveal that which was on his mind.

"It's big," said Merry after breakfast, when Frodo and Bilbo had gone for a walk together. Presumably, those two knew what the secret was. "If it wasn't big, then they wouldn't be keeping it a secret."

"I bet it has something to do with all those people who arrived the day before yesterday," said Pippin. "Sam and I saw these other elves coming, and dwarves. I daresay that all will be revealed during the feast tonight. And if not, we can always send another spy." He glanced meaningfully at Sam when he said this.

"Me?" said the little gardener. He stopped chewing on his grass stem. "Oh no, sir, I can't do that again. Mr. Frodo would suspect something if I asked too many questions, if you get my meaning."

"Why do you have to ask questions?" said Merry. "Just eavesdrop."

"I be meanin' no offense, Mister Merry," said Sam, "but I don't want to do no more eavesdropping. Usually, you hear something that you don't want to hear."

"Where's your sense of adventure, Sam?" said Pippin. "You were such a good spy when you were spying on Frodo for us back in the Shire."

"Beggin' your pardon, Mister Pippin," said Sam, "but adventures ain't fun when you're in them."

"Well, if Sam's not going to do it," said Merry, "then I think I know someone else who would."

"Who?" asked Pippin. Merry glanced over the top of his young cousin's head pointedly. Coming towards them, looking absolutely bored, was Logan.

"He's got good hearing, and he's not afraid of anything," said Merry. "I bet he'll do it."

* * *

**A/N:** Darn, I still wasn't able to get to the Council of Elrond, but at least Boromir has made an appearance. I hope I got his character right. I'm pretty sure I will reach the Council by next week (fingers crossed). Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the chapter, despite the lack of action.


	9. On Etiquette

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize. I'm just borrowing them for this little escapade.

**R-Cleberg: **I'm sure that most of the characters, once they see past the blunt gruffness of Logan's personality, will come to respect and like him. Boromir's a man and a soldier, so he probably identifies with Logan a bit more and understands him better than, say, Glorfindel. Ah yes, mayhem; Logan's quite a trouble magnet too, so no doubt the hobbits will find their existence a lot more interesting as well now that they know him. :D

**Chapter 9: On Etiquette**

That afternoon, Merry and Pippin reminded Logan about how much he hated being kept in the dark. So he wasn't the only one who had felt that something unusual was going on. "So, what do you want me to do?" he asked the hobbits. Sam had stayed quiet throughout the whole exchange, looking a little nervous.

"Just listen to conversations," said Merry. "You have good hearing."

"Yeah, I do," said Logan. "You sure they're going to talk about what's going on?"

"If you don't get 'what', then at least you might get a 'when' and 'where'," said Pippin. "With that, we can hatch the next step of the plan. Frodo thinks he can keep us out of it, but I'm a Took and Merry's a Brandybuck; you can't leave us out."

"Just make sure you don't look suspicious or ask any questions," advised Merry.

"I know that," said Logan. "Merry, I've been doing this kind of thing before you were born...I think." Now, who would be the easiest person to eavesdrop on? Strider was always observant, and it was easy to rouse his suspicions. Besides, he and those elven foster brothers of his could speak that strange elf language, creating a very effective barrier. Boromir was unlikely to tell him, if he knew anything at all, and Logan wasn't sure that he did. After all, he was a stranger to Rivendell, just as he was. It would be even harder to get the information out of Gandalf or Elrond. The former was awfully cryptic, and Logan didn't really like riddles. The prime candidates for this were Frodo and his cousin Bilbo. Bilbo, especially, liked to talk, the way most old people seemed to do. Logan was almost willing to bet his last two cigars that he would talk about this big secret with Frodo.

"So, you know what to do, right?" pressed Pippin.

"Sure I do," said Logan. "You just wait and see. The Wolverine always gets results." He conveniently neglected to mention that half the time, they weren't the desired results.

* * *

It wasn't easy, but it was a lot easier than a lot of the things which Logan had done in the past. At least no one was likely to try and rip him apart if he failed, or simply got caught. He did get a location, but everyone seemed to know what time it was supposed to be at, whatever this was.

"Well, it can't be tonight," said Pippin quite reasonably when Logan told him the information. "This big secret meeting will have to take place after the feast where everyone gets introduced to everyone else, right? I mean, it's common sense, not that Big Folk have as much common sense as us hobbits, but they have to have more sense than to let the guests meet each other before they've been properly introduced and fed. Hungry people are grumpy."

"He has a point," said Merry. "But it seems important, so I guess that the meeting will be soon. We'll just have to keep a watch on that courtyard at all times."

"Won't someone notice?" asked Sam nervously. Of course he had been roped into this. Merry and Pippin could be extremely persuasive when they cooperated and put their minds to it, and Sam was worried about his master. He wanted to know about everything that was happening to Mr. Frodo.

"There are plenty of places to hide there," said Merry. "There are pillars, stones..."

"Trees," added Pippin. "Logan's too big to hide behind the pillars and stones there."

"What makes you think I can hide behind a tree?" asked Logan.

"Not behind the tree, Logan," explained Pippin patiently. "You can hide _up_ a tree."

* * *

The lanterns had been lit, even though there was still enough daylight to see by. These lanterns weren't the ones which Logan had seen upon his arrival in Rivendell. Those had been pretty, but these belonged in an art museum, not that Logan knew anything about fine art. The ones hanging from the eaves of the pavilion where the feast was being set up were shaped like ships with swans for figureheads. The detail was so intricate that they looked as if they really were seafaring vessels, instead of something made out of glass. There were even tiny figures of elven sailors on the ships, each doing something different. Elsewhere, the lanterns were in the shape of delicate flowers with ring upon ring of glass petals. Some hung from the trees. Others stood on stands by the side of the winding paths, illuminating everything with their gentle glow. To Logan, it was a complete waste of energy, but perhaps Elrond didn't want any of his guests to get lost in the dark.

There were many trestle tables set up, with large chairs carved out of some sort of dark red wood which smelled rather pleasant. Logan wasn't particularly well informed when it came to wood either. Some of them had piles of cushions. He deducted that they were for the hobbits. However, there were more than four of those. He wondered where he would be sitting, and hoped that his neighbour would not be Goldilocks or one of the very many elves whom he had somehow offended.

The servants ignored his presence as they continued to set up for the feast. Some of the guests had already arrived, and they were in a hurry. Apart from elves, which Logan had expected, he saw a few more of those 'dwarves', and he hurriedly reminded himself not to call them midgets, or worse, jesters, even if they did look like jesters. Some of them carried axes, and Elrond probably wouldn't be happy if Logan started a fight before the feast even began. Logan didn't want to upset Elrond in any way, for the elven lord had been generous, and this was no way to repay a kind host.

"This is all rather impressive, is it not?" said Boromir, coming up behind him. The man from Gondor clearly had no qualms about wearing floor length robes, and he actually did not look ridiculous in them. He seemed to have rested, because the shadows under his eyes had faded somewhat.

"Yeah," said Logan. "I'm kinda used to eating in bars and kitchens, and they don't have pretty lanterns in those places, y'know." He waved his hands around to indicate all the fine decorations. "I'm just scared that I'll knock something over."

"I never did see the point of making delicate lights like those," said Boromir. "They are lights; I need them so I can see where I am going, or what I am eating."

"Exactly," said Logan. "We seem to understand one another pretty well. It's weird."

"Why would that be?" asked Boromir. "You might be a stranger to Rivendell, Logan, but so am I. I should think that one soldier would understand another, at least better than most elves would understand men."

"You're right, I guess," said Logan. "You ever meet any mid—dwarves before?"

"Indeed, I have not," said Boromir. "Most of my dealings concern men...and orcs."

"Why do I have a feeling that 'orcs' is not short for orchestra?" said Logan. "Do you know what the dwarves are doing here?"

"I may have a hint or two, but I cannot reveal it to you," said Boromir apologetically. "You seem rather curious about the dwarves."

"Yeah, well, I don't see them where I come from," said Logan. "They're like myths."

"If you are so curious, then you should probably speak with them," suggested the other man. To anyone else, that would have sounded reasonable, but since arriving in Middle Earth, Logan had learned a lot about his social skills, or the complete lack thereof.

"I probably shouldn't," he said. "I mean, since I've come here, I've been offending just about everyone, and it's probably not right to start a fight before anyone's had a bite to eat, y'know."

"What about after when everyone's had a drink?" asked Boromir with a mischievous grin. "I have no doubt that you would do very well in a drunken brawl, considering your size."

"Oh, I do very well in brawls," said Logan, "drunken or not."

Boromir laughed. "I believe you," he said. Then he sighed. "Elven wine is all very well, but there is nothing like a barrel of fine ale. To have a drunken brawl induced by wine simply doesn't sound right."

"It sounds wimpy," said Logan. "Y'know, like a bunch of pretty rich boys throwing pansy punches at each other, and not even getting bruises."

"What's this about punches?" asked Strider, interrupting this increasingly odd conversation. The ranger had arrived in the company of his foster brothers and a few other strange elves. One of them stood out in particular. Most elves had dark hair, but this one, like Goldilocks, had hair which looked as if it had been spun from gold. "You weren't thinking of hitting someone again, were you, Logan?"

"Strider, you're being a pain in the arse—I mean, you're being unfair," said Logan. "I haven't hit anyone since I came here."

"I will pretend that I did not hear that first part," said the ranger. The expression on his friends' faces was more than enough to make up for it. Logan was the opposite of elven grace and refinement. "And no, I think myself quite fair. What about Lord Glorfindel?"

"Goldilocks hit _me_, Strider," said Logan, crossing his arms. "As a consequence, he hurt his fist."

"Goldilocks?" said Strider's newest companion. "Aragorn, did Lord Glorfindel acquire a new name?"

"Just recently," said Strider. "I have no idea how."

"I do," said the elf, who also looked as if he could be another 'Goldilocks'. "He has golden hair. Gold locks."

"Well, that wasn't _exactly_ what I was thinking of when I called him that," said Logan. "I was thinking of a blonde little girl who stole porridge—" Before he could even finish, the elf burst out laughing. He seemed to have a sense of humour.

"Oh, would that I had been there to see it!" he said. "Alas, princely duties bind me." He shook his head. "And if you call me that," he said to Logan, "I would not be hitting you. I would shoot you."

"Uh, Logan," said Strider. "This is Prince Legolas, son of King Thranduil of Mirkwood. Legolas, this is Logan Howlett, and beside him is Lord Boromir of Gondor."

"I thought the only royalty around were British," said Logan before he could think of the implications of what he was saying. "Oh...whoops, no offence, Prince Leggy."

"Logan," said Strider in a low warning tone.

"What? Everyone has tongue-twister names which I can't say. If they won't give nicknames, then I kinda have to make them up, unless they're like you, and have way too many names, some of which happen to be pronounceable." The Wolverine glanced at 'Prince Leggy', whose pale face had become even paler. God, how could any male have such perfect skin and hair? It was insane. Even worse, the guy didn't look as if he needed to shave. 'He's an elf,' he reminded himself. 'Elves are weird.'

"Legolas, don't get angry," said Aragorn. "Logan's just like that; he's not used to our etiquette."

"Or any etiquette at all, it seems," said Legolas. His voice was cold, and very regal. Now he sounded as if he had been giving orders all his life, and having them obeyed. Logan had something about rebelling against authority. He crossed his arms and gave the elf his most feral glare which usually sent thugs running, even if they had guns. Well, that glare, coupled with his claws, made thugs run. However, considering this Legolas was a friend of Strider's and probably Elrond's guest, Logan had a feeling that it would not be a good idea to stab him.

Legolas was slightly shorter than Logan, but he was not intimidated by the big man at all. He simply glared back. His eyes were as cold as the jewels they resembled. It was unnatural, and Logan felt as if he was having a staring contest with a statue of a Roman emperor. "You know, elf-boy," he said, unable to bear the tense silence any longer. He didn't like subtle contests. Logan was a creature of instinct and action. "I don't appreciate being called uncivilized, not by you or by anyone else, and it's only because you're Strider's friend that I haven't made you pay for it yet."

"If anyone owes anyone an apology, then it would be you, Master Logan," said the elf. "I do not appreciate others making fun of my name."

"Legolas, Logan, this is all just a misunderstanding—" began Strider, but he was cut off when Legolas raised his hand suddenly.

"You need not explain, Aragorn," he said. "I know exactly what has happened. You want an apology from me, Logan? Then you will have to apologize first."

Logan leaned forward, so that his face was only inches from Legolas'. "I'm the Wolverine, kid," he said. "I don't apologize to anybody."

"Did Logan just call Legolas a young goat?" whispered Elrohir to his twin.

"It sounds like it," replied Elladan. "I am nervous about what is going to happen next, but I am also curious."

"Let us see how things unfold, and we can stop it if it gets too serious," said Elrohir. "I would like to see how Legolas deals with Logan. He is one stubborn elf."

"And Logan is a very stubborn man, with claws," said Elladan.

"Aren't you two going to help me with this?" asked Aragorn. "This is the welcoming feast. I do not want to see Legolas trying to tear Logan apart with his bare hands."

"If our friend thinks that he is capable of doing that, Estel, then he is overestimating himself. It would be a good reminder to him that he is not invincible."

"Legolas isn't, but Logan is," said Aragorn.

"As I said, in different words, this will be interesting," said Elladan.

Legolas and Logan were circling each other now, unblinking, like two dominant predators, each unwilling to back down. Logan looked as if he was getting impatient with the slow progress of the fight, while Legolas' face was completely emotionless. Aragorn recognized that look; it was the calm facade which the prince put on before he went in for the kill.

Then Boromir stepped in between them. "That is enough," he said, looking at the two of them. "Here we are, all guests of Lord Elrond, and good guests do not start fights just before their host's feast."

"He started it," said Logan, crossing his arms. His gaze never turned away from Legolas. "He called me a rude bastard."

"I did not!" said the outraged Legolas, partly because he was certain that he was not the one who had started the conflict, and secondly because Logan had paraphrased his original statement very badly. "I would not use such language!"

"You meant the same thing!" said Logan.

"I never accused you of being illegitimate!"

"Bastard doesn't have to mean illegitimate!"

"This is never going to end, is it?" demanded Aragorn. No one heard him over the commotion which his two antagonistic friends were making. Well, it was mostly Logan who was making all the noise. Legolas could somehow sound calm and enraged at the same time.

"What is going on here?" Silence fell, and even Logan stopped making threatening gestures. Elrond had arrived, and the Lord of Imladris was an impressive figure.

"He really did start it," muttered Logan under his breath. He bowed clumsily to Elrond, all the while trying to think of ways to explain to his host that he hadn't really meant to be offensive —again. It had just happened. He seemed to be always making mistakes like these, especially around these elves and all their rules.

"There appears to have been a misunderstanding between Prince Legolas and Logan, Ada," said Aragorn. He placed a hand on Legolas' arm. The elf was still tense, but he seemed to be in control of his temper now. "I believe that with some explaining, we will overcome it."

"It was a matter of different sets of etiquette," added Elladan as he went to Legolas and gently lead him away from the still disgruntled Logan.

"I am glad that it was nothing serious," said Elrond, even if he did sound as if he did not believe it to be a small matter. However, he took it in stride, as he always seemed to do. Beside him, Arwen smiled knowingly, but did not say anything as she took her place beside her father on his left.

Logan forgot about unhappy elven princes with strange names and winked at Strider, who simply scowled at the mutant.

"Well, I'm glad that no one hurt anyone before dinner started," declared Pippin as he took in the sight of all the food that had been set out on the long table. His seat was right next to Logan's, and he was mounted on a throne of cushions. "That would cause delay, and all this lovely food would grow cold."

"Yeah, it would," said Logan. The cooks had outdone themselves, truly. The food was on plates of silver. Before him was a peacock with its feathers placed back onto its body after it had been cooked. It would have looked as if it was still alive if it had not been steaming. Surrounding it were slices of egg boiled perfectly. The yolk was golden, with no sign of grey around the edges. There was also a platter of quails, stuffed with their own eggs and stewed in their own juices, with a generous dose of seasoning and herbs. Baskets with bread freshly out of the oven were passed around, along with plates of creamy yellow butter. Logan ripped off a generous hunk of bread for himself and smeared so much butter on it that the golden liquid started dripping off the bread and onto his plate.

"Now, even I would say that's much too much butter," said Pippin as he reached for one of the quails. "It's not good for you, Logan. You'll get fat, like Fatty Bolger."

"I don't get fat," said Logan as he topped his bread with bits of peacock leg. "I'm the Wolverine. My body is never going to be anything less than top-shape."

"Don't say I didn't warn you," said Pippin. He popped a quail egg into his mouth. "You know, with such small eggs, I have to wonder how many young quails had to die so that I could fill my belly...no, actually, I don't want to think about it."

"That's the spirit," said Logan. "I mean, it's food. If you feel bad for your food, then you won't enjoy it so much. Now, take potatoes; I never feel sorry for potatoes, so potato chips are one of my favourite foods."

"You can't feel bad for potatoes," said Boromir, who was seated opposite Logan. He was spreading some sort of unidentifiable paste onto his bread. It smelled good, though. "Potatoes are not alive."

"People back in my world did a study, and said that plants can feel pain," said Logan. "Not that I care. I mean, I don't hear them screaming—although some people do claim that that plants can scream in pain, in their own way."

"I haven't heard plants screaming," said Pippin, "but I have heard trees moaning and groaning. It was rather frightening, actually."

"How much beer had you had?" asked Logan.

"I was not drunk!" declared Pippin. He took a generous sip of elven wine.

"To hear trees groaning, you'd have to be," said Logan. "I hope you were drunk on beer. I miss beer."

"I heard it too," said Merry, who was seated somewhat further away. However, it seemed that hobbits did have sharp hearing. "And we were definitely not drunk."

"Well, in that case, maybe it's cruel to plants to just eat, you know, parts of them, and leave them alive and suffering," said Logan with a shrug. "It might be like amputating limbs for them."

"Well done, Logan," called Strider. "You've put me off my cauliflower."

"Now, that's even worse," said Logan, grinning devilishly at his friend. Strider looked so, well, handsome right now, and his girlfriend was watching. How could the Wolverine resist ruining the moment? "Flowers are actually the reproductive organs of plants, so you eating them would be the equivalent of—"

Pippin reached over and stuffed an entire chicken leg into Logan's mouth. "There," said the hobbit, satisfied with his handiwork. "That's much better, wouldn't you agree?"

* * *

Dawn was breaking in the east. An owl hooted sleepily as it prepared to retire for the day. Colour was beginning to streak the sky. Logan crept as silently as he could down the path to the courtyard where that big secret meeting was taking place. There were several large sturdy trees surrounding it. No one was there, which was just as well.

Logan selected the biggest tree, and then he began to climb.

* * *

Aragorn was confused, and more than just a little worried as he strode down the various corridors of the Last Homely House. He was so frustrated that he almost crashed into Gandalf. "Have you seen Logan?" he asked.

"No," said wizard. "I was wondering about his whereabouts, and I thought that you would know where he was. None of the hobbits have seen him either."

"It's not possible," said Aragorn, partly to himself and partly to Gandalf. "A big man such as Logan cannot simply disappear."

"Have you asked Elladan or Elrohir?" asked Gandalf. "They are elves, and elves tend to have better senses than men."

"Yes, I know that, and I have asked them. They haven't seen him either. Where can he possibly be?" Aragorn thought hard. Like most of the people who had not been invited to the Council, Logan probably knew something about it, and was probably angry that he had not been invited. He liked Logan well enough, but the man had an inflated sense of his worth. "Why do I have the feeling that he doesn't want to be found?"

"Hm," said Gandalf. "Probably because if he wanted to be found, he would have come and found you. Since he hasn't come, and he's also missed breakfast, I think that it's safe to assume he's hiding."

"But why hide? Why not confront someone about it?" asked Aragorn. "Logan is not a subtle man."

"Perhaps you have been underestimating, him, Aragorn, just as he overestimates himself at times." Gandalf patted Aragorn on the arm. "Come," he said. "You do not want to be late, do you? It would be rather embarrassing, considering you are Elrond's foster son."

Most of those who had been invited had arrived. The dwarves and the delegation from Mirkwood were keeping their distance from each other, and at times, Legolas looked rather hostile. It was a side of the elven prince which Aragorn did not see often. The Legolas he knew was practically perpetually cheerful, and was very open. He nodded at the elf in greeting before taking his seat beside Elrohir.

"He's been looking grim ever since last night," whispered Elrond's younger son. "And he wouldn't tell me when I asked him about it. Logan might be many things, but I don't think that even he's capable of putting Legolas into such a bad mood for so long."

"The darkness is encroaching on his kingdom," Aragorn whispered back. "You can hardly expect him to laugh about it."

"That would not have stopped the Legolas I know from smiling and making a few jests, not about the encroaching darkness, of course," argued Elrohir. "You know how he is."

"Extremely sarcastic at times?"

"Usually at all times. It is very hard to make him depressed about anything for long. Whatever it is, it is much more serious than Logan calling him funny names."

"Yes, well, I guessed that."

Last to arrive was Frodo and Bilbo. The younger hobbit helped Bilbo onto his mountain of cushions before settling down in his own seat. Frodo looked nervous, and who could blame him? Aragorn tried to give him a reassuring smile, but he was feeling nervous himself. What path would they take next, now that the Ring was in Rivendell? It could not stay here, for the power of the elves was not strong enough to veil its evil. He knew for certain that there was to be a war; he just didn't know how soon, and that uncertainty was making him uncomfortable.

"Let the Council commence," announced Elrond.

* * *

From his uncomfortable perch on the branch of his chosen tree, Logan could hear everything very clearly. The tree, however, seemed to have a vendetta against him, for its leaves kept on getting into his face and blocking his sight. Elrond was explaining something extremely confusing about rings of power. Logan remembered Strider talking about those back at the _Prancing Pony_, but he had not understood much of that either, apart from the fact that those powerful rings could takeover minds and turn men into screeching freaks on black horses. He heard of how a certain 'Sour Ron' made a mega ring and was trying to use it to control the world. It sounded like Middle Earth's version of a high-tech nuclear weapon, except much prettier, for it was a piece of jewellery. At least, that was what Logan assumed; for all he knew, it could have been a large stone ring or an onion ring. The thought of onion rings made his stomach growled, and for a moment, the threat of being discovered was very real.

Then Boromir got up. Logan could see the man's face clearly, but the worry in his voice was evident. The Gondorian ambassador told them of the dire situation of his nation. Once again, that funny 'More Door' business was mentioned. Apparently, most people had a grudge against the owner of this 'More Door' enterprise. Then Boromir spoke of a dream which he and his younger brother had both had, and was asking Elrond about its meaning. As the man mentioned something poetic about a broken sword, Strider suddenly stood.

"You need to look no further," he said to Boromir. "Behold, the sword that was broken!" With that, there was a ring of metal as he unsheathed his sword. Logan was confused. He had known that Strider owned a broken sword. Heck, he'd broken it himself. Then he realized that this was a different broken sword, and somehow, everyone was staring it as if it was the most amazing thing which they had ever beheld. He could almost smell the awe emanating from them, at least, in a figurative sense. "I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn."

'And who was the son of Marathon?' Logan thought to himself. They all had such strange names. He still hadn't gotten over the entire 'son of' business. How was he supposed to introduce himself? Logan Howlett, son of...whoever it was? That would go down well.

"He is of the House of Isildur, Elendil's son, and chief of the Dúnedain of the North," said Elrond. Obviously this meant something to everyone apart from Logan. Frodo leapt to his feet.

"This is yours, then, and not mine!" declared the hobbit.

"This is neither mine nor yours," said Strider-Aragorn-whose-ancestry-was-important. Logan was still just getting used to the sheer number of names the man had. "However, it has been decided that you should keep it for the time being."

'What is 'this'?' wondered Logan. These people had a tendency to speak in riddles, and he hated riddles in general. He tried to remember what special thing that Frodo had which could possibly belong to someone descended from important people. Wait, didn't he have some sort of invisibility device?

"Bring forth the Ring, Frodo," said Gandalf. "It is time for everyone to know." There was ominous silence. And then the hobbit stepped forward and placed something on the stone pedestal which was in the centre of the courtyard. Logan caught a glimpse of something metallic, but once again, a leaf was in his way. Murmurs rippled through those who had gathered, and the atmosphere seemed to grow tense. Now, the Wolverine might not have been the most sensitive of people, but even he could feel it.

"Behold, Isildur's Bane!" said Elrond.

"Then it is true," said Boromir. Awe and fear laced his voice. "Minas Tirith is going to her doom, and there is nothing we can do to stop it."

Everything that Logan heard only served to make him more confused. It was such a tiny little thing. How could it bring anything to its doom? He didn't understand. It wasn't as if this was a super nuclear weapon. Driven on by curiosity, Logan inched forward on his branch, trying to take a closer look. Evidently, the wood was not as strong as he had thought, or the tree really hated him, for the wood started to creak.

The last thing Aragorn had expected to see was Logan cursing colourfully while falling through the air, directly onto Glorfindel. It was fortunate that the elven lord had quick reflexes. The elf leapt out of the way just in time. Logan crashed into the chair, turning it into splintered bits of firewood. The broken branch followed him. Leaves floated down to the ground. Every participant in the council had jumped to their feet by now, and there was quite a bit of outraged shouting. Aragorn couldn't blame them. He'd had a fright, and he knew who Logan was.

"There is someone spying on this council?" demanded one of the dwarves hotly.

"We should interrogate him," declared one of the elves in Legolas' delegation. "Find out who he works for, and if he is a servant of the enemy, then make him tell us how much the enemy knows."

"He's harmless, actually," said Elladan, offering a hand to Logan. The elf hoisted the man to his feet. "Well, relatively harmless. Logan, what in the name of Elbereth are you doing here?"

"Isn't it obvious?" asked Logan, wincing as he rolled his head and flexed his arms. "That ground is really hard."

"Yes, Logan," said Elrohir. "We know. It's made out of stone. What were you doing up in that tree?"

"I was spying," said Logan. "What else could I be doing up in a tree?"

"At least he is honest about it," said Legolas. It seemed that he still had not forgiven Logan for calling him 'Prince Leggy'.

"Who do you work for?" asked a dwarf with a rich red beard. Aragorn had learned that his name was Gimli, and he was the son of Gloin, one of the dwarves who had accompanied Bilbo on his adventure.

"Nobody," said Logan. "I mean, I work for myself, Oka—all right?"

"How long have you been up that tree?" asked Boromir.

"Long enough," said Logan. "I've been up there since dawn."

"Why were you spying on us?" asked Gandalf.

"I was curious! You all had this big secret, and you wouldn't let me in on it, so I had no choice but to hide up that tree." Logan brushed off the last of the leaves and splinters, and then pointed at the Ring. "What's so great about this piece of bling anyway?"

"Piece of 'bling'?" murmured Glorfindel to Elrond.

"Didn't you hear anything that Lord Elrond has said?" asked Legolas. If it hadn't been beneath his station to do so, Aragorn was pretty sure that his friend would have sneered.

"Well, yeah, but it didn't make much sense to me," said Logan. "So, pretty boy, you care to explain?"

"Oh no, Logan," said Aragorn. That had been an extremely bad thing to call Legolas indeed. "Don't. It's foolish..."

"Sit down!" commanded Gandalf. "Lord Elrond is the Lord of Imladris, is he not? Then it should only be proper that he do the questioning."

Legolas' eyes were blazing with fury. Still, he bowed stiffly to both Elrond and Gandalf before returning to his seat. His gaze was continually fixed on Logan, until even the headstrong Wolverine was tempted to look away. Only, the Wolverine never backed out of anything.

"Now, Logan," said Elrond. "Please explain to everyone what you were doing up in that tree."

"As I said, I was spying on you guys," said Logan. "Last time I heard, curiosity was not a federal offence, and you never said that I couldn't come."

"You were not invited. Was the meaning not clear?" asked Elrond patiently.

"It was vague. If you had told me directly that I couldn't come, then I would have respected that," said Logan. "Hey, it's not as if I learned anything new."

"You heard all of that, and you didn't learn anything?" asked Glorfindel. He narrowed his eyes. "I find that hard to believe."

"Dude, none of it made any sense at all," said Logan. "Sure, I got it that you didn't want any more doors, and that Strider-Aragorn-and-so-on-and-so-forth had a lot of long fiddly names—"

"And _that_ was not one of them, I might add," said Aragorn.

"—and that there are rings out there which can turn men into screechy black freaks on horseback, but apart from that, it was like you were speaking another language, and I really wanna know what's going on. I mean, I've come this far, and I've helped to fight those black rider things; don't you think I deserve to know some of the truth at least?"

"He does have a slight point there," whispered Elladan.

"You think he would understand the details?" asked Elrohir.

"Keep it simple and vague," said Elladan. "A few sentences would do. He just wants an explanation to tie things together." He stepped forward. "You want answers, Logan?"

"I sure as hell do, man," said Logan.

"I am not a man, but that is of little importance," said Elladan. "All you need to know is that someone wants to take over the world, and this ring here has something to do with it."

"Oh yeah, it's kinda like some downsized nuclear bomb, right?" Everyone looked at Logan with much confusion. Grammatically, his sentence had made sense, but they had understood none of it.

"What is a 'new-clear bom'?" asked Aragorn.

"More importantly, what's a 'bom'?" asked Elrohir.

"You people are hopeless," said Logan, shaking his head. "You don't know anything!"

* * *

**A/N: **Right, so here's the first half of the Council of Elrond. The other half will come next week. I hope you enjoyed that. There was not much action, but the action bits don't really come until the Fellowship set off, and they seem to want to stay in Rivendell for a while.


	10. Wolverine Wants In

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize. I'm just borrowing them for this tale.

Darcy: I completely understand your sentiment about real life ;). Logan's going to have a shock when he finally gets the idea that his pal Aragorn is not just a ranger. However, it's going to be a while before he actually realizes the truth.

Thank you all for the reviews.

**Chapter 10: Wolverine Wants In**

He still didn't understand. If anything, he was becoming even more confused, and that was a frightening thought. Everyone else had started shouting, and some of the dwarves looked as if they wanted to behead him. Not that Logan couldn't deal with a healthy dose of physical violence. He had had plenty of experience with that. What he truly did not understand was why that piece of bling on the stone pedestal was so important. Even worse, he felt that it was important, and he somehow wanted it. All the noise simply went by unnoticed as he stared at that ring. It was so round. Could anyone make such a round thing? His eye might be untrained, but it was an absolutely beautiful thing. It seemed...powerful, somehow, even if it was only a pretty piece of bling.

He was vaguely aware of Legolas becoming distressed while talking about something called a 'gollum'. His mind wasn't on what was happening. He could hear a strange soothing voice inside his head, promising him that he could go home, if only he would take the ring on the pedestal. 'But it's not mine,' he protested.

_It could be,_ said the voice.

'But I know it's not mine.'

"Logan?" Strider's whisper dragged him out of his thoughts. He was one of the few who were not demanding that Logan be punished for spying on the council. "Are you feeling all right?"

"I'm fine," said Logan. "Why shouldn't I be?"

"The Ring," said Strider, as if that explained everything. His face was grave. The lines on his face seemed deeper, and while he still looked younger than his eighty-seven years, Logan now felt as if the ranger was bearing a very heavy burden on his shoulders.

"Yeah, it's pretty. What about it?" asked the Wolverine, who was not about to tell his friend that he had actually wanted the ring for a moment back there.

"It is dangerous, Logan," said the ranger. "Don't look at me like that. I know what was going on in your mind, because it was going on in my mind too."

"What the hell are you on about?" asked Logan. "Strider, are you feeling all right? Sure you don't need to go have a lie down?"

"I feel perfectly fine, Logan," snapped the ranger. "Stop trying to change the subject."

"Well, no offence or anything," said the Wolverine, "but I don't think you're fine. You're usually not that snappy, and unless you're a mutant in disguise, I don't see how you can sense what I was thinking."

"The Ring has similar effects on all men, Logan," said the ranger so quietly that even Logan, with his advanced hearing, could barely hear him above the shouting. "It tempts us and lures us with false promises of power and grandeur, and then it consumes us should we fall prey to its guiles."

"Um, hello, Strider. It's a bloody ring. It can't _do_ anything...can it?"

"Why did you covet it then?" The ranger had reason. It was just that it was such a bizarre reason that Logan couldn't quite accept it. It wasn't scientific! Rings didn't have minds of their own, and rings certainly couldn't make men do things which they otherwise would not do. Then again, those screechy black riders had been men whose minds had been taken over by magic rings. Why couldn't this be another magic ring? Logan grimaced and rubbed his temples.

"Now you're making my head hurt," he said. "Magic rings don't sit well with me." He glanced at the ring on the pedestal again. "Is it really playing with my mind?"

"I daresay it is trying to," said Strider. "If I had the time, I would explain everything to you in detail, now that you have seen the Ring."

"Oh no, spare me," said Logan. "I just want the abbreviated version."

"Fair enough," said Strider, "but even that will take a while. For now, sit down, and try not to attract attention." Logan looked around. Most of the people present had vacated their seats, and some of them looked as if they were about to come to blows. He did not know these people well, but from the expression on Strider's face, he guessed that this was unnatural behaviour. Ah well, natural or not, they were getting very aggressive, and would probably not notice if he stole someone's chair. He settled himself into one beside Strider and leaned back. Damn that tree. It had been a long fall, and that ground was really hard.

"Master Logan," said Elladan, "is it not bad enough that you have intruded on a secret council and smashed Glorfindel's seat? Must you take my chair as well?"

"Musical chair, pal," said Logan with a shrug. "Haven't you played that before?" Elladan did not look amused, and Logan took the hint. Geez, these people were highly strung. Had Elladan missed out on his morning coffee or something? Usually, the son of Elrond was a lot less grumpy. "Fine, fine, I'll go and stand behind Strider and pretend I'm a statue." With that, he went off to one side.

Elrond had managed to calm everyone down by then, and they all returned to their seats, with the exception of Glorfindel, whose chair had been utterly destroyed. He waited while the splinters were swept away and a new chair was put in its place.

"What do we do with this ring?" asked one of the dwarves. He looked like a grumpier miniature version of Santa Claus, and Logan would have laughed at the solemnity of that question, except he had promised not to attract attention.

"It cannot stay in Rivendell," interjected Elrohir. "Can it, Ada?"

"No, it cannot," said Elrond, "for the power of Vilya is not enough to hide it."

"We can send it over the sea," suggested one of the elves whose name Logan did not know.

"Or we could destroy it," said Elrond. Murmurs rippled through everyone gathered. Elrond ignored them, although he must have heard one or two of the things which were being said. "Sending it over the sea will not eliminate the threat. The only way to defeat Sauron is to destroy this Ring."

More murmurs. "Well, that's easy, innit?" said Logan before he could stop himself. All eyes turned to him. Again. Elrond raised his eyebrow at the mutant, but not in amusement. "I mean, it's just a ring, right? It can't be that hard." He extended his claws to make his point, and before anyone could stop him, he strode over to where the Ring was, on the stone pedestal.

It was smooth and golden, and so very beautiful. 'It's playing with your head, Logan,' he told himself, 'and that can't be good.' He slowly raised his hand, and then brought his claws down on the Ring. There was what sounded like an explosion, and he was thrown backwards. Pain shot up his arm, and he could see nothing but flames before him. His ears were ringing. 'Damn it!' he thought. 'Someone rigged that ring to blow!' He heard concerned voices calling his name, and identified Strider and Boromir's. Well, at least he was still alive. That had to be a blessing.

"Logan," Strider was saying. "Logan, answer me!"

"I can hear you," grunted Logan. He blinked several times to clear his vision. The vague shapes before his eyes became clearer, and he could see the concerned faces of almost everyone present staring down at him. "Wait, what happened to the fire?"

"What fire?" asked Boromir, looking around him in confusion. "There was no fire, Logan."

"What? That's impossible!" said Logan as he tried to sit up. His arm ached profusely and his head was reeling. "There must be a fire! That thing exploded!"

"Uh, Logan, nothing exploded," said Strider.

"Sure it did," said the mutant stubbornly. "It blew me backwards."

"Well, that part was true," said Gandalf. "But Strider is right. There was no explosion."

"But I saw..." Logan trailed off. Damn that ring! It was playing with his head again!

"What did you see, Logan?" That was Elrond.

"I saw flames," he said. "Wait...it looked a bit like a cat's eye, come to think of it. Kinda odd, but I've seen really odd things in my time. You sure there wasn't an explosion?"

"Logan, that was not an explosion," said Gandalf quietly. "You saw the Eye of Sauron." Tense silence descended upon them while Logan tried to process the information. Then the mutant rolled his eyes.

"Oooh, freaky," he said. "So I saw an eye. What's the big deal? I've even gouged out eyes on occasion."

"That is the all-seeing eye of Sauron," explained Elrond. "From his vantage point at the top of the Tower of Barad-dur, the Dark Lord sees all. It is dangerous to underestimate him."

"If he's so powerful, how come he only has one eye?" asked Logan as he sat up. They were right; there had been no explosion, and that blasted ring was still intact on the stone pedestal. There weren't even any dents to prove that Logan had tried to destroy the thing with his claws. It was unnatural, and not the least bit scientific. It simply didn't make sense to Logan, not that science made much sense to him.

"Later, Logan," said Strider in a low voice. "It is a long tale, and a dark one. All you really need to know right now is that you cannot destroy the Ring."

"If I can't, then what can?"

"The Ring, Master Logan, can be destroyed by neither craft nor claw," said Elrond. "It must be taken deep into Mordor and cast into the fires of Mount Doom."

"That is a dangerous path to take," said Boromir. His gaze was fixed on the Ring, as if he both wanted and loathed it. There was a strange gleam in his eye which made him look dangerous and alien. Logan didn't like that development one bit. From what he had learned of Boromir, the man from Gondor was a steadfast soldier whose heart could not be moved by either wealth or promises of great power, and yet here he was, lusting after this thing which was not his. Perhaps Strider was right; this ring was playing with their heads, but why?

"Any path is dangerous, Lord Boromir," said Gandalf. "The question remains; who will take the Ring?"

At once, everyone started talking, each claiming that he was the best choice. They squabbled violently, and to Logan, it was as if they had suddenly been transformed from noble lords into high school kids. Well, really snobby high school kids who spoke like the queen of England. Only a few remained in their seats, and Strider was included among that number. His manner was sullen, brooding, as if he was deep in some dark melancholic thought.

Logan's ears twitched. Frodo was saying something, but his voice was being drowned out by the others' shouts. The hobbit needed a microphone. Or he just needed to join in the shouting himself. Frodo repeated himself again, this time louder. "I will take the Ring to Mordor!" Logan heard him say. Obviously, the other people present heard him too, for they fell silent and turned in the hobbit's direction.

"That is a brave decision, Master Baggins," said Elrond, "but are you certain? The path to Mordor is fraught with danger, and the spies of Sauron are everywhere."

"I am certain, Lord Elrond," said Frodo. "I have brought the Ring this far. It is my task."

They all regarded the hobbit who was half the size of everyone present —with the exception of Bilbo— and was resolute in the extreme. His face was still pale, for he had not yet fully recovered from his wound. It seemed to Logan as if he looked a little translucent.

"I admire you courage, Master Hobbit," said Boromir. "Would that all men had hearts as stout as yours."

"He cannot go alone," said Glorfindel.

"No, indeed, he cannot," said Elrond.

"Then who's going with Frodo?" asked Strider.

"I'll come," said Logan. His arm still ached a little, but most of the discomfort had faded. He loved his mutant powers.

"The choice of Frodo's companions is an important matter," said Elrond. "We cannot make the decisions, lightly, Logan."

"Well, I'm just sayin' it, Lord Elrond," said Logan. "I want in. I can really help with all those dangers on the way, whatever they are."

"It would also help if he had some idea about what the dangers were," Elladan whispered to Elrohir.

"The decision is not yours to make, Master Logan," said Elrond patiently. He had expected that Logan would volunteer. As strange as the man was, he was quite predictable, and most people could tell that he was very protective of those whom he considered friends. However, as loyal as he was, Elrond doubted that he was a very suitable candidate for such a task.

"Well, Mister Frodo's not going anywhere without me!" declared a voice. Sam leapt out from behind some bushes, with leaves still stuck in his hair. He ran up to where Frodo was and planted his feet on the ground, as if he was expecting to be told that he couldn't go.

"Indeed, I would not think of it," said Elrond with a smile. "It is hardly possible to separate you, even when he is summoned to a secret council and you are not. Very well, Master Samwise. You shall go with Frodo."

"But I wasn't summoned either!" protested Logan.

"Logan, Sam didn't almost crush Glorfindel," said Elladan. "It makes him seem a little more suitable in the eyes of the council."

"Just a little bit more suitable," said Elrohir, slapping the fuming Logan on the back. "Never lose heart, my friend. For all we know, they might actually choose you to join the company."

* * *

"It is not fair," declared Pippin when Sam and Frodo relayed the events of that morning to him and Merry. "Sam goes along to spy on the council, and not only is he not punished, he's rewarded by getting to go on a big adventure with Frodo!"

"Really, Pippin," said Frodo as he poured himself a cup of tea and added two teaspoons of sugar. "I think it's the worst sort of punishment. Going to Mordor is no fun at all."

"Then why wasn't I punished?" asked Logan grumpily. Once again, he had joined the hobbits for afternoon tea. They were having it on the balcony of Frodo's room, and it seemed that with everyone else distracted by the secret council and all the rumours about what was actually going on, Merry and Pippin had managed to pilfer more food from the kitchens than usual. The Wolverine snagged a piece of ham on his claw and dropped it into his mouth.

"Logan, it's called a fork," said Frodo, brandishing the said piece of cutlery. "I think they thought you were punished enough when you fell out of that tree."

"Stupid tree," grumbled Logan. "I swear, it was deliberately making my life miserable."

"Logan, it's a tree," said Merry. "It probably doesn't hate you more than it hates anyone else."

"It still hates me," insisted Logan.

There was a knock on the door. "Can we come in?" came Gandalf's voice.

"Door's not locked, Gandalf!" called Bilbo. "Come, join us for some tea. The seedcake's all gone, but there is still plenty of food left—Peregrin Took, you ruffian, that was _my _sugar bun!"

They heard the wizard chuckling as he opened the door. Strider was right behind him; it was not often that the ranger joined them for afternoon tea, and it was a pleasant surprise. Everyone was glad to see the two of them. Gandalf accepted a cup of tea, but declined the offers of biscuits and sandwiches. "I've only just had lunch," he said.

"I don't understand how you Big Folk eat so little," said Pippin after the ranger also said that he was too full from lunch. "I mean, apart from Logan, that is. He's normal."

"Oh, Pippin, if only you can see the irony in that statement," said Merry.

"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Pippin.

"I have no idea," said Logan. "Care to explain, Merry?"

"Out of all people, you say that the one with claws is normal," said Merry. "Isn't that ironic?"

"Yeah, but he still eats decently," said Pippin. "I say that makes him almost as normal as us hobbits."

"Is that a compliment?" asked Logan.

"What do you think, Gandalf?" asked Pippin, turning to the wizard. Gandalf almost choked on his tea.

"Oh no, Peregrin Took," he said. "I am not going to embroil myself in another debate with you. I came to tell you that Frodo will have eight companions, and that we have already chosen six of them."

"Am I in?" asked Logan.

"No, Master Logan," said Gandalf. "You are not part of what is to be the Fellowship of the Ring, for various reasons."

"Tell me just one," said the Wolverine, crossing his arms.

"Our mission is discreet," said Gandalf. "For all your virtues, Logan, you draw too much attention to yourself."

"It would be better for you to stay behind and prepare for the imminent war," said Strider. "Sauron will send out armies to attack the Free Peoples of Middle Earth, and we need men like you to defend them, Logan."

"Who are the others?" asked Merry.

"The Fellowship is to number nine in total," said Gandalf. "Nine walkers to counter the nine black riders. We have decided that the Fellowship should represent all the Free Peoples of Middle Earth. I am going, of course, as this is my purpose. For hobbits, we have Frodo and Sam. For the elves, the council has chosen Legolas of Mirkwood. Gimli, son of Gloin, stands for the dwarves. For men, we have Boromir of Gondor, and Aragorn here."

"Strider!" cried Frodo, beaming at the ranger. "I am glad that you are coming too!"

"As am I, Frodo," said the ranger. "It was a good arrangement, as I was about to head south anyway."

"What about the other two?" asked Logan. "I can be one of them."

"He never gives up, does he?" Gandalf said to Strider. He turned back to the mutant, who was staring at him with much expectation. "Elrond was thinking of sending two other elven lords, perhaps Glorfindel and someone else."

"I think we should go," said Pippin, grabbing Merry by the arm. "There are two of us, and Frodo needs us to look after him."

"Indeed," said Merry. "We were the ones who escorted him to Bree. You can't leave us out now."

"Besides, someone's got to keep you lot in place," said Pippin with a straight face.

"I beg your pardon?" said Gandalf. The wizard raised one bushy eyebrow. "Did I just hear you correctly, Peregrin Took?"

"I'm serious, Gandalf!" said Pippin. "I mean, with all you big people going, you're going to need some common hobbit sense to keep you in line. Isn't that right, Merry?"

"Of course," said Merry. "We Brandybucks and Tooks are famous for our common hobbit sense." Frodo spat out a mouthful of tea, and Sam choked on his sandwich as they both started sniggering. "Well, not really," Merry conceded, "but we are very good adventurers."

"Gandalf, it might not be a bad idea," said Strider thoughtfully. "It would be beneficial to our Fellowship to have people who will keep our spirits up."

"I thought that was why we chose Legolas to come with us," said Gandalf.

"Legolas' sense of humour is not to everyone's taste, Gandalf," said Strider. "You know that. Besides, even he is sombre right now."

"What about me?" demanded Logan. He extended his claws. "Hello! I'm the invincible one! You can't leave me out!"

"Logan, I already said that the council has decided that you were not coming," said Gandalf patiently. "You do not know Middle Earth well enough, and that would only make you a burden. I know you are eager to help, but you will be more useful if you remain in Rivendell and prepare for the war. Besides, if we take on Merry and Pippin, then the numbers will have been filled."

"Can't you just make it ten, and add me?" said Logan stubbornly.

"No, Logan," said Gandalf. "Nine walkers against the nine black riders. Too many would draw attention to our Fellowship, and our mission relies on its secrecy."

"We are not leaving you behind because we underestimate you, Logan," said Strider. "We are leaving you behind because this is truly a quest which is not suited to your nature. You would do better on the battlefield."

Logan stood up abruptly. He'd heard enough of all their excuses. They thought he was going to be a burden because he didn't know enough about Middle Earth. Well, he would show them. Gandalf was not going to change his mind, but neither was the Wolverine going to concede defeat. He went off to find Boromir. For his plan to work, he needed someone who knew Middle Earth relatively well, and Boromir was always helpful. It was in the man's nature.

* * *

Boromir was surprised to see Logan standing at his door. Around this time of the day, the man was usually having afternoon tea with the hobbits. "Boromir, do you have a minute?" asked Logan.

"Of course, Logan," said Boromir. "Come, come in. I am afraid I don't have any wine at the moment; I wasn't expecting visitors."

"Don't worry about it," said Logan. "So, you're going to be part of this Fellowship, eh?"

"Yes," said Boromir. "I was going to head back south anyway, and it is a good arrangement." He invited Logan to sit down. "I wish you could come with us, Logan, but Lord Elrond seems to think that you would be of more use here."

"Yeah, they told me," said Logan. "Hey, listen, I'd like to learn more about Middle Earth. Each day, I'm reminded of how little I know, and I feel like an absolute dolt."

"I would be delighted to help you, Logan," said Boromir, looking surprised. "In fact, I am honoured that you asked me, although I think Lord Aragorn or Gandalf would be much better teachers than I."

"They're too confusing for me," said Logan. "I mean, you know how they speak in riddles half the time, and are never straightforward? Just like all the other elves?"

Boromir smiled and nodded. "Indeed, I feel the same way sometimes. These elves are very learned, and I am very young compared to them. However, I believe you are many years my senior, Logan, no?"

"That makes you a lot less stuffy," said Logan. Well, Boromir was a lot less cryptic, and since they were both soldiers and men who had grown up amongst other men, they understood each other relatively well, albeit Boromir sounded like one of Arthur's knights more than a sergeant in the United States' military.

"I'm flattered," said Boromir with a laugh. "What do you wish to know?"

"Let's start with the geography, shall we?" said Logan.

"Ah, that I know," said Boromir. Soldiering had forced him to study the subject diligently, and he was extremely glad that Logan was not asking him about poetry or history. While he had studied those, he was not particularly interested in them, and many of the lessons had simply been lost over the years. After all, remembering a particular style of poetry was not going to help anyone win a battle against the forces of Mordor. "But first, let us go to the library. I will have need of maps to show you everything."

* * *

Maps lay spread out before them on the table. They were very beautiful maps too; hand-drawn, and with a lot of detail. All over the map was flowing spidery writing, although they meant as much to Logan as Egyptian hieroglyphics did. Boromir had not been entirely surprised when Logan had told him that he could not read whatever it was that they wrote with in Middle Earth, although Logan did have a suspicion that the other man simply thought he was illiterate. However, in this place, he might as well be.

"This here is Gondor," said Boromir, pointing to somewhere in the south east. "We are right on the borders of Mordor."

"Mordor's pretty well defined," commented Logan. There were mountains surrounding it completely. At least he would be able to identify that now. "Where's Rivendell?"

"Rivendell is here," said Boromir, pointing to somewhere in the middle of the great land mass that was Middle Earth. Logan forced himself to memorize every detail. If his plan was to work, then he would need to know all of this. Boromir told him of the climates of almost every place in Middle Earth. Actually, it wasn't too different from the sort of geography which Logan knew. The further south, the warmer it was. He learned approximately how long it took to go from one place to another, depending on the mode of transport. Considering his very prickly relationship with Bill the Pony and anything equine, Logan guessed that he was probably going to go everywhere by foot. The conversation soon turned to battles. Boromir briefly explained what orcs were to Logan, and by the time evening came, the two were comparing battle strategies, using paper weights to indicate platoons. Boromir particularly liked the idea of trench warfare. Snipers, however, garnered intense disapproval from the honourable man.

"I don't particularly like them either," said Logan. "I'm a close range man."

"I can see that," said Boromir. "You and I should spar together sometime, Logan."

"Oh, that would be great," said Logan. He liked sparring. It was physical, and he was good at it. "But right now, I'd love to go to dinner."

"Goodness, is that the time?" said Boromir, glancing out the window. "We should hurry, before they finish without us. I hear that there is to be a gathering in the Hall of Fire tonight."

"What's that about?" asked Logan. "Am I allowed to go?"

"Yes, everyone is invited. I believe there will be song and story-telling," said Boromir. "The music of the elves is legendary, although I have yet to hear it. I sincerely hope that they do not invite me to sing anything, even if they do think it is polite to offer such an opportunity to guests. Can you sing, Logan?"

"Me? Depends on what you consider singing. I mean, I don't know anything that's appropriate for a general audience." Well, that wasn't exactly true. He did know some pretty good songs, but he'd be damned if he had to belt out Broadway show-tunes to a bunch of elves.

"If I were younger, I would tell you to go ahead and sing them," said Boromir with a grin. "However, I am older now, and more sensible. It is not good to offend one's host."

"Can you imagine the look on Lord Elrond's face?" asked Logan with a snigger.

"No, I cannot," said Boromir, shaking his head. He was wondering just how inappropriate Logan's songs were.

"Hmm, perhaps I should go up and sing them," mused Logan, much to Boromir's horror.

* * *

The Hall of Fire looked as if it belonged in the Louvre. On every wall, there were frescoes, depicting mystical scenes. Logan was pretty certain that they were supposed to tell a story. He just wasn't certain about the storyline. On one wall, there were a series of images which merged into one another. In each panel, which was approximately five feet wide, there was a beautiful elven woman. She was dancing, always. Sometimes, there was a man in the image with her, watching her.

"It is quite amazing, is it not?" said Boromir as he came up behind Logan. He handed him a cup of mulled wine.

"Thanks," said Logan, accepting it. "I don't really know how to appreciate art, but I think this is quite beautiful, and interesting. I mean, it's like a comic book."

"What sort of book, sorry?" asked Boromir.

"Ah, basically a picture book," said Logan. He was about to explain the concept of graphic novels, but one of the elves had taken up a strange instrument which looked a little like a guitar, and had started singing. Boromir had not exaggerated when he had said that the music of the elves was legendary. Logan did not understand a single word, but he was drawn into the song anyway. The emotions in the music were so strong. He felt as if he was back at the beginning of time, watching the first flowers bloom.

'No way am I singing after listening to that,' he thought. Forget Pavarotti. This elf was the best singer he had ever heard. He found a place to sit near the hobbits, and leaned back to enjoy the song. Sam had fallen asleep, and Frodo was lazily tapping the beat with his fingers.

"Logan?" It was Strider. "I had not thought that you would come."

"I didn't think I'd like this, but I do," said Logan, indicating the singing elf, who had begun another song.

"I never took you to be an admirer of music either," said the ranger.

"You'd be surprised," said Logan. "I like a good tune as much as the next person does. It's just that my 'good tune' is not your definition of a 'good tune', most of the time."

Strider threw back his head and downed all the contents of his cup. He looked very relaxed; it probably had something to do with the wine. "I think you should sing us one before we decide whether you have an appalling taste in music or not," said the ranger.

"Uh, no thank you," said Logan. "I'm not going to make a fool of myself after listening to that. I'm not that good."

"The elves have learned not to expect perfect music from us men," said Strider. He beckoned over to one of the other elves and whispered something into his ear. The elf looked amused, and then went off to do something. The song finished, and the audience clapped appreciatively. Strider gave Logan a small push. "Go on," he said. "You're next."

"Strider! What am I supposed to sing?" said Logan.

"Just sing the first thing that comes to your mind," said the ranger. It was music. How horrifying could music be?

"You asked for it," muttered Logan. "If anything goes wrong, I'm blaming you." He wracked his brains for a song. His favourite musical came to mind. Ah well, it was Strider's fault. These elves and their guests were going to get a song about a cannibalistic killer barber who wanted to cut people's throats. He drained the wine in his cup. He was going to need it.

The elves looked at him expectantly as he stepped before them. "Uh...erm," he said. "I'm gonna sing a song from my place, and if you hate it, blame Strider. He made me do this." With that, he took a deep breath, and began.

Before the first verse was over, Elrond's glass goblet had shattered in his hand.

* * *

**A/N:** Logan's song is 'Epiphany' from the musical _Sweeney Todd_ by Stephen Sondheim. I hope you enjoyed the chapter. This will be the last of the 'talkey' ones, I think. And yes, while Logan is not actually part of the Fellowship, he's not going to let himself be left out. ;) As always, suggestions and advice are most welcome.


	11. Logan Goes South

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything that you recognize; I'm just borrowing them for this tale. **

**Violet: **Thanks. I don't leave stories hanging, especially not crossovers, so you can be assured that I'm going to finish this one.

**Chapter 11: Logan Goes South**

Logan sat down on his bed and rubbed his face. All in all, it had not gone as badly as he had expected. Lord Elrond had been furious initially, but after his extremely convoluted explanation, which included telling the Lord of Imladris the entire tale of the vengeful cannibalistic barber, the elven lord had simply shaken his head and told Logan not to do anything like that again. Of course, it had been extremely embarrassing, but there was one good bit; by talking about meat pies made with human flesh, Logan was pretty sure that he had pushed Strider towards vegetarianism, and that expression on the ranger's face had almost been worth it.

He pulled off his boots and flopped back on the wide mattress, staring blankly at the ceiling. By now, everyone had retired for the night. Most of them were more than just a little inebriated, although all the elves seemed to be completely sober. Rivendell was so quiet that even now, Logan was not used to it. Back home, in Xavier's school, the kids were always making noise, even when they were asleep; well, they were supposed to be asleep. He always knew that the teenagers stayed awake long after they were supposed to have gone to bed, and chattered about all sorts of inane things. He just never saw the point of going down and telling them to stop. Their whispers did not bother him.

The night sky was dotted with stars, both bright and faint. It was as if someone had taken icing sugar and sprinkled it all over the blackness. It would be quite beautiful if one was into such things. However, Logan was not. He preferred cheerful neon lights announcing a casino, or perhaps a nightclub. Stars were for poets and artists. He was neither. Sighing, he tried reaching into his pocket to fish out his cigar, and then realized that he was wearing a pair of breeches which Strider had lent him, and the cigars were in his jean pockets.

"Damn it," he muttered under his breath. He didn't want to get up and go look for his jeans in the dark, not that it was that dark, but he simply felt too lazy to move. Instead, he simply lay there and tried to recall the geography lessons which Boromir had given him that afternoon. Soon, the place names became jumbled as sleep overtook the Wolverine.

* * *

"Hey," said Logan as he approached Boromir, hands in his pockets. He felt awkward. They were all going off on some mission, and leaving him behind, not that he would be left behind for long. Still, he wasn't very good at saying goodbye. The entire so-called 'Fellowship of the Ring' was in the courtyard, preparing for their departure. Gandalf and Strider were speaking together quietly, whilst Sam stood by Bill the Pony and stroked his equine nose absent-mindedly. Even Merry and Pippin were solemn, although Logan doubted they would stay that way for long.

"Logan, good morning," said the Gondorian. "I had not expected to see you here so early."

"I just wanted to, y'know, uh...see you off before everybody comes along and waves goodbye to the troops in a big ceremony and all," said Logan. "I really wish I could go with you guys."

"Take heart, Logan," said Boromir, clapping the Wolverine on the shoulder. "You will get to see Minas Tirith one day, and I will show you all her wonders, that is, if you will let me."

"Yeah, I'd like that," said Logan. "Hey, listen, thanks for the geography lessons. They've been really helpful."

"I am glad," said Boromir. He checked the straps on his shield, making sure yet again that they showed no signs of wear.

The Fellowship was going to set out that morning, after scouts had returned, having found no sign of the black riders except the corpses of their horses and their discarded cloaks. It was as safe as it could have been, and the quest could not be delayed any longer. If they waited anymore, winter would come, and that would make the going extremely difficult. Logan knew that he would have to set off soon as well, if his plan was to work. However, he could not very well leave _before_ the Fellowship. That would simply rouse too much suspicion.

"You've come to say goodbye to us, haven't you?" asked Pippin. "I knew you'd miss us."

"Yeah, I'll miss second breakfast, and all those cakes at afternoon tea, you scamp," said Logan.

"Hey, I'm too old to be called a scamp," said Pippin, "even if you are one hundred and twenty, not that I believe you."

"Have I ever given you any reason not to trust me?" said Logan with a grin. Trust Pippin to cheer him up.

"I'm going to miss you, Logan...pal," said Pippin, trying out the term of endearment which the Wolverine liked to use, and making his friend's grin widen even more. "I got that right, didn't I?"

"Yeah, you did, pal," said Logan, "kinda, anyway."

"You've got to keep Bilbo company once we're gone," said Merry. "And I'm pretty sure he'll tell you all about his adventures."

"Over and over again," added Pippin. "Although I always like listening to him anyway. He changes the story with each telling."

"And when we get back, Gandalf will tell you another version," said Frodo, who, upon hearing their conversation, had come over to join them. He seemed to be in good enough spirits, but there was something forced about his jovial tone, as if he was trying to hide something. "After all that, you will be extremely confused as to what actually happened."

"Gimli's da had another version too," said Pippin. "I heard old Gloin bantering with Bilbo about it. Gloin was most adamant that he had not forgotten a single detail, despite the fact that he's much older than Bilbo."

"Well, Gandalf's a lot older than Bilbo," said Merry, "but I'm willing to bet all my pipeweed that he has a better memory."

"Pfft, but that's Gandalf," said Pippin. "He's different."

"And he can hear you quite clearly," said the old wizard without even looking up. "Thank you for your vote of confidence, Meriadoc."

"You're welcome," said Merry cheerfully. "Have we packed enough food?"

There came a chorus of 'no's and 'yes's. Well, one 'no' and a lot of 'yes's. "Of course we haven't packed enough food," said Pippin. "We never pack enough food!"

"We will be hunting and living off the land as well, Pippin," said Boromir.

"Oh, I remember now," said Pippin, wrinkling his nose. "Strider bagged a really old deer the other time, and we had to eat it with no seasoning."

"It wasn't all bad," said Logan. "I was there too, remember? The burnt fat was pretty good."

"This time I'm prepared, Mr. Pippin," said Sam. "And that was in the marshes. There wasn't no seasonin' to be found."

"Do not fret, Master hobbit," called Legolas from the other side of the courtyard. "I know exactly what to hunt, unlike our long-legged friend here."

"Oh, stop it, Legolas," said Strider, who did not appreciate having his hunting prowess made fun of. "I know you have better eyesight, but you have to admit that I am more than competent as a hunter. There simply was not enough time in the marshes. I needed to reach Rivendell as quickly as possible. There were Nazgûl pursuing us."

"I hope we will be luckier this time, Aragorn," said Gandalf.

"We will be, Gandalf," said the ranger. "We will be."

"And if you're not, you'll still be better prepared," said Logan. "I mean, you have more people." That, and since the Wolverine actually knew something about what was going on this time, he would be of more help. Not that they were supposed to know that, of course. Everyone had thought that he would either stay in Rivendell, or go to one of the settlements of men nearby, not that there were any within five days' journey.

"Thank you, Logan, for pointing out that nine is three more than six," said Gandalf. The wizard's eyes were twinkling.

"You're welcome," said Logan. "Do you want me to point out that you actually have ten, because Bill is going with you, and since you already have ten, thus ruining the whole nine versus nine thing, you might as well make it eleven and take me along with you." Well, it was worth a try. If it worked, it would save all the effort of sneaking off and trying to cover his tracks. Logan wasn't the best liar in the world, even if he had managed to fool everyone for now.

"No," said Gandalf. "Nice try, Logan, but no, you cannot come."

"You really are persistent, are you not, Master Logan?" came a voice from behind the Wolverine. Elrond had arrived, along with many others, including the dwarves and the other elves in Legolas' company, who were going to return to their own realm after bidding farewell to their prince. It was a sombre company, and Logan felt as if they were all attending a funeral of sorts, which was _not_ a comforting thought.

"Hey, you know, if they're going to go on a suicidal mission, the least they can do is take me along, right?" said Logan with a shrug. "I mean, I am the indestructible one."

"You will get your chance to go on suicidal missions, Logan," said Elrond. "You have already used that argument on me. It did not work, and it is not going to work now."

"Aw, come on!" said Logan. Ah well, he was just going to have to revert back to his original plan, that was all. He stood to the side as Elrond gave a long speech about how the Ringbearer was setting off on his quest, and the good will of all free people in Middle Earth going with the Fellowship. There was a lot of bowing, placing of hands over hearts, and gestures which Logan could not interpret. Whatever happened to waving goodbye?

"Good luck!" he hollered as the Fellowship filed through the arch and out of Rivendell. He could not do all the fancy bowing, but he did know how to do this. "I'll see you soon!" In fact, they would be seeing him a lot sooner than they'd thought possible. He heard someone chuckling. It sounded like Strider.

"And you just ruined the solemnity," whispered Elrohir as he came up behind Logan.

"I'm the Wolverine," Logan whispered back. "It's what I do."

* * *

With the Fellowship gone, life in Rivendell became dull and routine. As much as Logan hated to be sentimental, he missed those new friends of his, even though he knew he would be joining them pretty soon, if his plan worked out. For the first few days, the elves seemed to watch him closely as if to make sure that he was not going to do just what he was planning to do. He tried to behave as if there was nothing going on.

However, Elladan and Elrohir, being the two elves who knew him the best, suspected that he was onto something. It was very hard to lie to them; they were extremely observant, and they kept asking him about how he was, no doubt trying to discern what was going on in his mind. And Logan really didn't like lying to them. He persisted, however, knowing that they would probably try to stop him should he tell them what he was about to do.

The Wolverine wandered back to his room with his hands in his pockets and an unlit cigar between his teeth. He kept his eyes down, but in fact, he was listening for anyone who might be following him. Nightfall was coming earlier, and the leaves had long turned from green to rich yellows and reds. If he wanted to catch up with his friends, then he really ought to set off soon, as in tonight.

His room was dark; the only light came from the moon and the lanterns outside. Logan reached for the flint, which he kept on the table right next to his door. He'd learned to do that after a few nights of stumbling around in the dark and cursing as he had knocked over things. He lit a taper and used that to light the rest of the lamps in his room. The flickering flames did not dispel all shadows, but at least there was enough light to see by. That was all Logan cared about at the moment.

Going over to the large wooden coffer at the end of his bed, he undid the catch, which clicked as it opened, and lifted the lid. Inside were various items of clothing, borrowed from various people and altered to fit him. There were spare candles, packs of jerky which Logan had gotten after several kitchen raids with him acting as the lookout while Merry and Pippin had done the actual raiding, oil cloth, and spare blankets. He stripped one of the sheets off his bed and folded it before dumping everything that he would need into the centre. After much experimentation and muttered cursing, he managed to fashion some sort of bag-like object which he could loop his arm through so that it was like a backpack with a single strap. The resulting bundle was rather cumbersome, but Logan was used to carrying around a great load. He had travelled a lot in his lifetime.

If he could, he would have left a note, but considering no one actually wrote English in this place, he doubted that there would be much point in doing so. 'If they don't write English, then how can they speak English then?' he wondered. It occurred to him that they might not actually be speaking English, but then, why would he be able to understand him? All he really knew was that something weird was going on, but he'd figured that out ages ago. As long as he could communicate, who cared what he or they were speaking?

He blew out the candles and then let his eyes adjust to the dark so that he could actually find the door handle. There was no one outside his room, which was just as well. He didn't want to explain to anyone why he was carrying a bundle of supplies around in the middle of the night.

* * *

He reached the narrow bridge with no rails. Only the sound of the waterfall broke the silence of the night. Logan glanced back at Rivendell. It truly was a beautiful place, and the elves had been kind, even if they had not liked him much. He was going to miss it.

"Where do you think you are going, Master Logan?" said a voice in the dark.

At once, claws were extended. The lethal lengths of metal gleamed in the pale moonlight. "Where are you?" growled Logan.

"There is no need to get agitated," said the voice. A figure stepped out from the shadows. Whoever he was, he was glowing. An elf. Logan rolled his eyes and retracted his claws. It figured; only an elf could sneak up on him like that.

"El—whichever one you are, what are you doing out here?" he asked.

"I would ask the same of you, Master Logan," said the twin, "although I think I already have some idea. Do you want me to guess and see if I am correct?"

"Go ahead, try me," said Logan. "It won't make much difference anyway, because I am going, whether you like it or not."

"Peace, Logan," said the elf. "If I were Elladan, I would have stopped you, but I am not. You are going to follow Estel and the Ringbearer's company, are you not?"

"Correct," said Logan. "You gonna do anything about that, pal?" He crossed his arms.

"I said that I was not," said Elrohir. "Valar, Logan, would you please stop being so...so... prickly? I am here as a friend seeing you off."

"Yeah— oh." Now Logan felt embarrassed. He should really have asked first. Not being very good at apologizing, he simply shut up.

"No one will stop you," said Elrohir. "Ada knew that you would try and go with them. He just did not expect for you to wait so long."

"Lord Elrond knows?" said Logan. "And he's letting me?" That was...unexpected.

"My father believes that you were sent here for a purpose," said Elrohir. "Do not ask me what that purpose is. No one knows. However, he has decided that it would be futile to stop you, as you would only find a way to get around our attempts."

"Damn right I would — sorry. Go on, please."

"So Ada has decided to give you a farewell gift," said Elrohir. He unhooked a silver flask from his belt and handed it to Logan. The Wolverine took it. His large hand dwarfed the finely crafted vessel. There was liquid inside it.

"It is something for when the road grows too long and harsh," said Elrohir. "Save it for those times when you really need more strength, and cannot find it anywhere else. Trust me, you will find it useful."

"I...I don't know what to say, Elrohir, and that's the truth," said Logan.

"Then just thank my father, and be on your way," said Elrohir. "May Elbereth guide and protect you, Logan."

"Uh..." Now, how was he supposed to respond to that? "God bless," said Logan awkwardly. "And thanks for everything."

"It was our plea— all right, I shall be honest with you. For some of us, you were a pain, but I am glad to have met you, Master Wolverine."

Logan laughed. "I appreciate it, pal," he said.

"And if you should fail to find the others, you are always welcome back here. My father will not turn you away, and neither will I. I cannot speak for Glorfindel, though."

* * *

The journey was a lot more difficult than Pippin had expected. Well, he had expected that it would not be much fun, and that he would get tired, but the Big Folk's legs were far too long. They walked extremely quickly, and wasn't Gandalf supposed to be old? His foot hair was matted with mud; it had rained last night, and there was very little grass on the ground. It wasn't really winter yet, but his feet already felt frozen. All he really wanted to do was sit in front of a merry little fire and drink mulled cider.

Pippin glanced at Merry. His cousin looked miserable too, but he was not complaining, and a Took was definitely not going to lose to a Brandybuck, or a Baggins or a Gamgee, for that matter. His pack was slipping off his shoulders. He hoisted it up again and concentrated on putting one foot in front of another, trying not to think about how sore he was feeling, and how much he just wanted to sit down and eat something. One. Two. One. Two. It got easier as he established a rhythm, but not by much.

"Do you need some help, Master Peregrin?" asked Boromir. The man was acting as the rearguard. Pippin thought it was kind of him to ask; it was not as if his pack was small.

"I'll be fine, Boromir," he said, "but thank you for offering." Well, if they had to slog through the mud for any longer, he might just take up that offer. However, he had come along of his own free will; it was not right for him to complain now. Besides, he didn't want to cause any more trouble for Frodo. In a way, he knew he ought to be grateful that Elrond and Gandalf had actually allowed him to come and accompany his cousin. Logan had wanted to come, and he seemed so much better suited to this sort of thing, and yet, they hadn't let him.

He sighed. As much as he hated to admit it, he would love to be in Logan's place right now. It was probably time for afternoon tea, and he and Bilbo would be having tea and seedcake, and sugar buns.

* * *

The sky was grey, as it had been for days. Logan wiped the drizzle off his face, knowing that it was completely futile. He would only get steadily wetter if this weather continued. "Great call, Logan," he muttered to himself. Since he was alone, there was no one to ask him if he was mad. "You never thought to find a waterproof backpack, did you?" All his clothes were damp. At least he'd wrapped his dried meat in oil cloth, not that he couldn't hunt if he needed to, but that would waste so much time, and he needed to catch up with the others before their scent faded.

He sniffed. Well, there was the scent of pipeweed, as well as something equine, and something human. Logan was extremely glad that no one in the Fellowship was likely to get a bath or shower in the near future. It made following them a lot easier.

Suddenly, he stopped. His ears twitched, and he sniffed tentatively.

It seemed that he was not the only one trying to follow someone. Well, he could deal with a few stalkers. It was a pity that no one had taken the time to explain to him just what exactly lurked in the wilds of Middle Earth.

The first arrow surprised him, and he only just managed to duck. Out came the claws, just in time to parry the downward blow from a...was that a scimitar? His claws cut through the blade easily. Whatever these things were, they were hardly a match for him, although he did find them rather irritating. For one, their scent masked the scent of everything else.

Logan roared in fury as he skewered one of the black creatures which had been attempting to skewer him. It let out a grating scream and struggled wildly at the end of his claws before the Wolverine lost his patience and decapitated it. Another one latched onto his leg, tripping him. He fell down, hard, and rolled away just before he was decapitated.

Arrows flew overhead, but they were off their mark. These creatures, whatever they were, had extremely poor aim.

"You wanna piece of me?" he shouted as he flung one of them at its companions. "So come and get it, you mangy mongrels!" His claws dripped with sticky black liquid, and his skin gleamed with sweat. The black creatures looked uncertain, as if they regretted trying to make a meal out of him. He didn't give them time to rethink their choice. They attacked him, and they were going to pay. Besides, the best defence was an offence. He leapt at them, claws extended before him like six swords. They sank into the chests of two more of those creatures, and while his weight and his momentum sent another one flying backwards. The crash landing drove the breath from his lungs, but the Wolverine was not going to let such a petty thing stop him.

He flung the corpses off his claws. If he had been competing in the Olympic games, he was pretty certain that he would have gotten himself a medal or two. The bodies struck a few more of his enemies, bringing them down for a moment. They were frightened now. The archers had long run away, and the scimitar wielding ones were trying to do the same. Most of them got away. Logan only had six claws, after all. If he had not been so determined to catch up with his friends, Logan would have given chase, and perhaps finished them off, but the more time he spent here, the colder the trail would get. He spat on the ground and then wiped his face with his t-shirt. Personal hygiene would have to wait until he caught up with the others. He just had to hope that they would not mistake him for a monster and attempt to kill him. It would be awfully hard for them to try and get new swords out here.

* * *

Legolas felt uneasy. He did not have the gift of foresight, but being an elf, he knew when danger was close at hand. And there was something else...something which he could not decipher.

"Legolas, are you even listening to me?" Aragorn's voice pulled him out of his thoughts.

"I beg your pardon, Aragorn," said Legolas. "What were you saying again?"

"I said that lunch is ready, and that you should join us," said the ranger. "You simply continued to say yes and nod, without making any indication that you were going to comply. Is everything well?"

"I hope so," replied the elf. "Of course, you and I both know that 'well' is a matter of relativity."

"So, you do sense something," said the ranger. "What is it?"

"There is something following us," said Legolas. "There is evil, and there is something else which I cannot place."

"Is it nearby?" said Aragorn.

"No, not yet," said Legolas. "I am probably being overly cautious. Come, let us join the others for lunch. They will grow suspicious if we do not."

* * *

Another fire; this one had been lit and put out more recently. Logan even found some old horse dung. Well, pony dung, if he was right and he was actually following his friends and not someone else. He was pretty certain though. The scent of unwashed bodies and pipeweed was still strong enough.

"Well, would you look at that," he said to no one in particular. "I'm gettin' pretty damn close."

* * *

He watched them, this time taking even more care to make himself unnoticeable. The last time, he had been caught by that man of the six knives. He was not here this time, and he was glad, although these greater numbers would mean more trouble. No matter. He had more men with him this time, and he, Marikh was going to get results. He had spent enough time and effort following them. By Mordor, he had bled for this!

* * *

Clouds veiled the stars, making it very difficult to see anything clearly. Nonetheless, Aragorn peered into the dark and strained his hears, trying to make sure that he would be able to identify any potential threats. All that remained of their small campfire were smouldering coals. He chewed on the stem of his pipe thoughtfully. Behind him, Legolas was also keeping watch. It made him feel safer to know that his friend was there. Surely sharp elven eyesight and hearing would pick up what a man could not.

The ranger wrapped his weathered cloak more tightly around him. It was getting colder. Soon, they should expect snow. The hairs on the back of his neck suddenly stood up, as if someone was watching him. Moments later, there was a high-pitched whistle as an arrow flew overhead and landed in the mud only a few feet away from where Boromir was lying.

They were all on their feet, with weapons drawn, and not a moment too soon. Arrows were flying everywhere. Boromir pushed the hobbits behind him. They were frightened, and who would not be? This was probably their first real battle, and they were definitely not prepared.

He lifted his shield to intercept two arrows. There were loud thuds as they embedded their heads in the leather. There was very little light to see by, but they did not look like orc arrows.

No, these arrows were made by men.

* * *

Logan heard the din of a fight. He could smell the blood as the wind blew into his face. Aha! He had caught up, and just in time too! The adrenalin flowed, and made his heart beat faster. Forgetting about the cold and the damp, he broke into a run, not caring if he made enough noise to put a herd of stampeding buffalo to shame. If he scared off the attackers, then that would be wonderful, but he doubted that he was that effective.

* * *

All Aragorn heard was a roar, and then the man who had been trying to decapitate him was knocked off his feet by a charging blur. In fact, if the ranger had not stepped back instinctively, he might have been in the path of whatever it was that was attacking that man. Whatever it was, it sounded extremely large and vicious. Actually, Aragorn had heard something similar before, only...it was not possible, was it?

"You again! You can stuff your sword up your arse, you son of a bitch!" Yes, it definitely was Logan. No one cursed quite like him. That led to a bigger question. What was Logan doing here? Well, actually he could answer that question later. With the numbers they were facing, he was just glad that they were getting some form of reinforcement.

"It's Logan!" he heard Merry cry.

"What is he doing here?" demanded Gandalf. The wizard struck out at a man who had made the mistake of taking his aged appearance as a sign of weakness. His staff connected with the man's jaw, knocking him backwards. No one answered the wizard's question. Indeed, Logan was still too busy cursing and tearing men into pieces. He fought as one who was born knowing the art of killing. Gandalf could not help but be impressed by his speed and strength. There was no grace in his movements at all. No one would mistake him for an elven warrior, but that did not mean that he was any less effective. For one, their enemy now seemed very confused and frightened. Gandalf recognized the words for 'demon' in the Southrons' tongue. It was a very apt description for this version of Logan.

* * *

**A/N: **And Logan is in on the game! I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Suggestions, advice, and constructive criticism in general are most welcome.


	12. The Wolverine Unleashed

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Golgar: **I'm glad you're enjoying the story. Here's the next chapter.

**Violet: **Thank you for reading.

**Chapter 12: The Wolverine Unleashed**

Aragorn tried to hide his grin as he watched the increasingly tense staring contest between Logan and Gandalf. He knew he was behaving in a most ridiculous manner. They had just survived an ambush, and enemies were everywhere; there was nothing to grin about. However, he could not deny that it was amusing to watch the Wolverine and the wizard trying to intimidate each other. Maybe he was simply too tired.

The hobbits were sitting around a small fire. Frodo was feeding sticks to the flames absent-mindedly whilst Sam brewed tea for everyone. A hot drink would help to calm their nerves after this most unexpected attack.

"Logan, when we said that you could not come, we meant exactly that," Gandalf was saying. He sounded like a parent who had been disobeyed. Aragorn remembered Elrond talking to him in such a tone when he had been a boy. That had been such a long time ago. Sometimes, he wished that his foster father would talk to him in such a tone again. He had been happy as a child, without such a great burden on his shoulders. "What part of 'you cannot come' do you not understand?"

"The part after 'you'," said Logan. "Honestly, Gandalf, just because you say I can't do something doesn't mean that I actually can't do it." He knew he sounded like one of his cheekier students, but it was the absolute truth. Logan didn't always listen to instructions. In fact, he hardly ever did.

"No, Logan," said Gandalf. "When I say something, I mean exactly what I say."

"Well, Lord Elrond let me come," said Logan, crossing his arms.

"He did?" That was Aragorn, and he was surprised that his foster father would do such a thing. For one, Logan knew nothing of Middle Earth. Who knew what sort of disaster he could cause? What prompted Elrond to unleash Logan on Arda?

"Yeah, he did," said Logan. "Don't look so surprised. Your dad's smarter than you think; he knew that he couldn't stop me, and that it was absolutely pointless to try. He just didn't give me any instructions, that's all."

"So _that_ was why you asked me for geography lessons," said Boromir, shaking his head. "I think we all underestimated you, Master Logan."

"We did not," said Gandalf. "We overestimated his common sense!" Indeed, the wizard was incredibly irritated that Logan had followed them. Perhaps he was irritated because Logan had _succeeded_ in following them, meaning that they had not been as secretive as he had thought.

"Peace," said Aragorn. "I think we did both."

"You can underestimate _and_ overestimate someone at exactly the same time?" asked Logan, who was rather perplexed by that statement. "I'm confused."

"As are we, Master Logan," said Legolas. He narrowed his eyes at the Wolverine. Ever since Logan had called him 'pretty boy' —something which he did not appreciate at all— he had not thought well of Aragorn's strange friend. "How did you manage to find us?"

"Pretty boy, have you realized how much you all smell?" asked Logan with a grin. He looked extremely smug as he tapped his nose. Legolas pressed his lips together and dug his fingernails into his palms so that he would not give into the urge to punch the insolent man. He'd spoken with Glorfindel before the Fellowship had left Rivendell. Apparently, Logan had an extremely hard head. He would have to find some other way to have his revenge, after the quest was over. After all, Logan had come to their aid when they had needed it. He deserved a delay.

"Excuse me," said Boromir, pretending to be affronted, even if he knew that it was entirely true, "you do not smell like roses and lavender either, Logan."

"True, that," said Logan, "but that still does not change the fact that you guys are ripe."

"Ripe?" Boromir was now utterly confused. He was not a fruit to be plucked from a tree. Nor was he of a ripe old age. Why would Logan even say such a thing?

"Can we please get back to the problem at hand?" demanded Gandalf, who was not amused at all. "Now that Master Logan has found us, should we let him join us, or should we send him back?"

Everyone started speaking at once. "Hey, wait a minute!" said Logan. "What makes you think I would go back even if you told me to?"

"Come on, Gandalf," said Gimli the dwarf. "The lad's been a great help. I think we can use his claws." Logan's display of fighting prowess had impressed him greatly. Ever since Gimli's first encounter with Logan, when he had fallen out of the tree during the Council of Elrond, the dwarf had not known what to think of this odd brash man who knew the most inappropriate songs and who could also be incredibly rude. Right now, however, he decided that he did like Logan. Anyone who could fight like that deserved some respect. And he had called the elf 'pretty', something which only made Gimli like him more.

"Gimli's right," said Aragorn. "Logan is an asset, when he is not going around insulting everyone."

"We'll keep an eye on him," said Merry. He gave Pippin a nudge. "Won't we, Pippin?"

"Of course," said the Took. "There won't be any trouble at all. We promise."

"Why is there a feeling of dread growing inside me?" murmured the wizard.

* * *

Gandalf made them get an early start the next morning, just in case the Southrons who had attacked them the night before had reinforcements. No one complained; they were too shaken to have slept much anyway. Only Bill seemed calm. He chomped on his bit as Sam fastened the last bundle to his pack saddle. The pony's eyes were half-closed. "No time for dozing, old chap," murmured the little gardener. "We've got to get going." He tugged on Bill's halter. The animal complacently followed.

"I still do not understand how you could have found us simply by smelling," Boromir was saying to Logan. "I know we all smell of unwashed bodies, but surely the scent is not that strong."

"Most people wouldn't smell it," said Logan with a dismissive wave of his hand. "I'm just not most people, that's all."

"Yes, I know you have claws," said Boromir.

"Not just claws, pal, but super hearing and super smell," said Logan. "If I had super sight, I would be Superman."

"I guess that is supposed to mean something," said the Gondorian. He liked Logan, but sometimes, it was very difficult to understand the man.

"Oh yeah," said Logan. "Cultural references are wasted on you. Pity; I thought it was a good one."

"So you tracked us, by smell," said Boromir. It was very odd for a man to do that. Then he reminded himself that Logan was not just any man. He was the Wolverine, whatever that meant.

"Partly smell, and partly because I could see where you'd lit campfires," said Logan. "You know, I don't track people the way dogs do. Well, mostly I don't, anyway." He shrugged. "It's just a handy skill to have. Means I usually find what I want to find."

"I could have used a man like you when I was fighting at the borders," said Boromir, clapping Logan on the shoulder. The two men walked in amiable silence. They had been assigned to guard the rear, partly because they were well suited to the task, and partly because Gandalf did not want Logan to accidentally open his mouth and insult someone. Boromir knew him, and the wizard trusted that the Gondorian would know how to keep Logan out of trouble.

The weak rays of sunlight did little to warm them, but at least it was not raining. Any reprieve from the wet was welcome. The terrain grew increasingly uneven. Gandalf led them over hill after hill. The autumn grass was yellow and limp from the rain. Bushes with long thin leaves dotted the landscape like clumps of fur sticking out the ground at random. "This country does not get much water," said Boromir.

"I can see that," said Logan. "Looks kinda...forlorn." There were forests in the distance, but they were so far away that they seemed to be no more than a dark line on the horizon. Out here, there was not even a spindly tree to be seen for miles. Not that Logan minded; after his last encounter with a tree, he was not too fond of anything that was taller than him and had branches.

His stomach growled, and rather audibly too. Boromir raised an eyebrow in amusement. "I swear, Logan, you are becoming more and more like a hobbit," he said. "If I am correct, it is now time for 'second breakfast', is it not?"

"Did someone say second breakfast?" asked Pippin from the middle of the column.

"Are we going to have some?" asked Merry. "I am starving!"

"Rashers of crispy bacon, and fried eggs..." mused Pippin.

"No, no, no!" said Gandalf, whipping around. "We are not stopping for second breakfast, and there is no bacon to be had, so you can stop dreaming now, Master Peregrin."

"I knew it was too good to be true," said Merry with a sigh. "Come on, Pippin. If we're lucky, we might get lunch today."

"Or miss it, the way we did yesterday," said Pippin. "Sometimes, I really do regret coming on this quest."

* * *

Legolas had not spoken much to anyone ever since Logan's arrival. Anyone who did not know the elf well would probably think that it was because of the Wolverine, but there was something else. The Southrons were defeated, yes, but the elf was certain that they were only one force. There were other things searching for them. Maybe they weren't searching for the Fellowship specifically, but there were still stray parties of orcs, and there was probably not much food out here for them. In this rocky hilly terrain, there were lots of places for those foul creatures to hide, lying in wait for prey to come to them.

"Legolas, you are not listening to me, again," said Aragorn, coming up behind the elf.

"I apologize," said Legolas. "I was thinking."

"I could see that," said Aragorn. "It's your turn to go and hunt. Boromir and I did it last time. Take Logan with you. That man is an excellent tracker."

"I can find prey on my own, Aragorn," said Legolas. "You know that."

"That I do," said the ranger, "but it's not safe for any of us to be alone. You know _that_, I suppose?"

"I would probably be better off without anyone to distract me," said the elven prince. "I do not need to take Master Logan with me."

"Logan is not that bad, once you get to know him better," said Aragorn. "I know you are angry at him for calling you pretty, but he is not trying to offend you on purpose. It's just what he does, to everyone."

"I suppose he does," said Legolas with a sigh. "That does not mean I feel any better about him when he calls me pretty, or effeminate."

"Just take him with you, please," said Aragorn. "You might find that he is more agreeable than you had originally thought. Even Elladan and Elrohir grew to like him."

* * *

'Not "elf-boy", not "pretty boy", not "Leggy", but "Legolas", which sounds a lot like "Lego Lass", but isn't,' Logan reminded himself as he followed the elf. If he was to be a part of this Fellowship, or pretend that he was, Strider had told him, then he would have to become friends with everyone, and that included the uptight elven prince who seemed to be trying to pretend that he did not exist at all.

He clambered over a dark rock with sharp edges, following the elf as he deftly leapt over any obstacle in his path, as if he had wings on his feet. Actually, Logan wouldn't be surprised to find out that someone had those winged sandals from Greek mythology.

"Hey, Legolas," said the Wolverine. The elf was standing as still as a statue on one of the rocks. The wind was blowing his hair back, and he looked as if he was posing for a camera, although Logan doubted he knew what a camera was. "What exactly are you trying to catch? I smell rabbits nearby, y'know."

"Are you always this noisy when tracking prey?" asked Legolas, not even bothering to turn and face him.

Logan shrugged. "Just tryin' to be friendly here," he said. "Look, I know I've offended you in the past, and will probably do it again. I just want you to know that it's nothing personal."

"Aragorn did tell me that," said the elf. He sighed and leapt down from the rock. "Perhaps we should call it a truce then, Logan, as long as you do not begin insulting me again."

"You know I am going to do it again, right?" said Logan. "I mean, I don't mean to, but sometimes...y'know..." He trailed off as the elf suddenly stiffened. Becoming friends with Legolas seemed a lot harder than he'd thought, and he'd known that it wouldn't be easy, especially since the elf didn't seem to like being called pretty at all. "Look, I know you don't like me, but—" Legolas raised a hand to cut him off in mid-sentence.

"Listen," said the elf quietly. Logan did as he was told.

They had found hunters, instead of prey.

* * *

Legolas slowly peered around the edge of the rock behind which he and Logan were hiding. There were orcs, many orcs, and they were heading towards where the unsuspecting Fellowship had made camp. Even if they could somehow get back and warn the others in time, they would still have to fight those foul creatures, and Legolas doubted that the Fellowship would be able to win in a struggle of force. These were a larger breed of orc, and they seemed to be more disciplined than common goblins.

"We have to do something to lead them away," he said to Logan.

"There must be at least a hundred of those things out there," hissed Logan. "You're mad!"

"Are you in, Master Logan?"

"Absolutely! I wouldn't be Logan Howlett if I didn't do something mad once in a while."

They quickly devised a plan; it was a simple one. They would distract the orcs and lead them on a wild chase away from the camp, and then they would somehow lose the orcs and go back to warn the others. The only problem was losing the orcs. How were they supposed to accomplish that?

"We shall have to make it up as we go along," said Legolas. "It is like a maze out here. It should not be too hard."

"Right," said Logan. The elf was a lot more daring than he had expected of someone who always looked so pristine. "You know, I'd prefer it if we had a plan B, you know, for when we can't lose the orcs."

"We fight them if we cannot lose them, and hope that your claws and my arrows will be enough to get us out of the situation," said Legolas. "You are not afraid, are you, Master Logan?"

"If I was scared, then I wouldn't have come out here in the first place," said Logan. "I'm in."

Logan could hear the rhythm of their iron shod feet as they marched in a haphazard formation over the rocky ground. He was downwind from them, and their stench almost made him gag. It smelled worse than a teenager's bedroom. The orcs were drawing closer. It was now, or never. After all, neither he nor Legolas intended for the orcs to get close enough to catch them. Legolas gave his signal. They both leapt out from behind the rock.

"You lookin' for something?" asked Logan in his best drawl. The orcs stopped. They really were ugly brutes, with flat noses, dark leathery faces, and narrow yellow eyes. Their teeth were discoloured from their lack of hygiene. Logan wouldn't have been too surprised to know that years of rotting flesh had collected in the gaps between the teeth. He supposed that their bone toothpicks did not work as well as they had thought it would. The orcs sneered at the man and the elf, thinking that they would be easy prey. Legolas took aim with not one, but two arrows. His hands were steady and still. "Hey, what are you waitin' for?" continued Logan. "You want food? It's right here. Catch it if you can!" It was his task to gain the orcs' interest, and as bad as it sounded, he was succeeding.

The foul creatures started towards them. That was when Legolas loosed his arrows. They whistled as they flew in an arc. If this was a movie, it would be in slow motion, and the camera would be following the arrows. However, there was no film editor to dramatize the moment, and Logan could hardly see what was happening. One moment, the elf had released his arrows, and the next, two of the orcs were dead with arrows buried deeply in their eye-sockets. "Way to go, William Tell," murmured Logan. "Now what do we do?"

"We run," said Legolas. He fired another arrow into the midst of the furious orcs, and then he was off. His feet hardly seemed to touch the ground. Maybe he did have wings on his shoes, albeit invisible wings. Logan, on the other hand, did not have wings, invisible or otherwise. The elf was running much too quickly for him to keep up. He stumbled as part of a rock crumbled beneath his feet while he was clambering over it. He growled in frustration.

"Logan, come!" called Legolas. The elf had noticed that he was struggling, and strangely enough, he was coming back for him.

"No, run!" Logan shouted. "I can manage fine!" The orcs were only twenty yards or so behind him. He could not believe that he, the Wolverine, actually had the risk of being eaten. It was incomprehensible, and should word ever get out, he would never be able to live it down.

Legolas ignored him and pulled him to his feet. "Come!" said the elf. "There is a labyrinth of rock just ahead!"

A crossbow bolt flew past their heads and splintered as it hit rock. They had not counted on the orcs having long range weapons. This was definitely not a good situation to be in. "You lead!" said Logan. "I'll bring up the rear."

"Bring up what rear? There are only two of us!" Legolas ducked again. He could feel the wind as the foul orc arrow narrowly missed his ear. Maybe this diversion plan was not the best plan he had ever had, especially since his accomplice was not a swift-footed elf, but an extremely heavy man with a metal skeleton. Logan blocked a few arrows with his claws, and then, with a grunt, yanked out one which had embedded itself in his upper arm.

"I hate all this medieval weaponry," he said as he ran backwards and tried to bat aside every arrow with his claws. Mostly, he succeeded, although he had to say that most of them would not have hit him anyway. "In fact, I hate long range weapons. You cowardly sons of bitches!"

"Do not insult female dogs," said Legolas. "I am rather fond of them. They are very affectionate."

"You use long-ranged weapons," Logan pointed out between gasps for air.

"Now you are simply being insulting," said Legolas.

The ground became more uneven as they continued to lead the orcs away from the Fellowship's camp. Rocks jutted out everywhere like jagged teeth, obscuring what lay ahead. Shadows pooled beneath them. Legolas hated enclosed places, but this was the one chance they had to lose the orcs.

"Are you sure this is going to work?" panted Logan.

"Not certain, but I am hoping that it will," whispered Legolas. He ducked into the shadows, weaving between rocks and hoping that the orcs would not be able to hear or smell them.

Logan crouched behind a particularly large rock, trying to keep his breathing to a minimum. He'd been in ambushes before, and he hadn't really enjoyed it. Sure, he had laughed about it afterwards, but adventures were never fun while one was involved. This one was no different, albeit he was fighting things who tried to shoot him with crossbows instead of bullets. He could hear the orcs speaking to each other in their harsh guttural language. Why did he have a feeling that they were going to have to resort to the second plan? Ah well, he never minded a good fight. He just didn't like the odds of this one.

He slowly extended his claws and nodded at Legolas. Understanding passed between the two of them. The elf placed a hand over his heart, as if giving his comrade one last salute. He seemed to know that it was suicidal, and he was ready for it. The orcs were everywhere, sniffing, looking for their prey.

And then one of them walked past the rock behind which Logan and Legolas were crouching. Legolas reacted first; his arrow flew straight into the orc's eye, piercing the thin bone of the eye socket and going into the brain. The creature's shriek was cut short. However, it had alerted its companions. Logan sprang into action, propelling himself into the air, all six claws brandished and roaring as if the sound would somehow make him more deadly. The orcs, however, were deterred for a moment by the sight and sound of this strange predator which was attacking them. Logan fell onto them, knocking a few of them to the ground. There was chaos and confusion as the orcs tried to process what was going on, and then they threw themselves upon the Wolverine.

He was on his feet in an instant. Twisting around, he decapitated an orc which had been about to embed an axe in his skull from behind. Blood spurted from the headless neck as the body fell backwards. There was no time to exult in that small success. He dropped and rolled, narrowly avoiding the swinging blade which would have cut off his head. As he got back onto his feet, he spread his arms, with his claws pointing straight away for him. Two orcs, propelled forward by their own momentum, skewered themselves on the lengths of metal. Logan yanked out his claws. Black blood dripped from the tips as he whirled around to face his remaining opponents. Unfortunately, there were still quite a few of them. It was like killing ants. For every one he killed, another seemed to replace it; it was an endless cycle, unless he could somehow find a way to exterminate them all in an instant. He wished he had a really big machine gun. Wasn't there an illegal machine gun called the Vaporizer? He could really do with one of those right now. He could not fight off so many orcs alone.

Arrows flew into the midst of the seething mass, reminding Logan that he was not alone. This was the first time which he had seen Legolas fight, and as much as he hated to admit it, he was impressed. The elf was so damn _fast_! He seemed to be a blur as he moved, weaving in and out as he made his way over to where Logan was. He'd slung his bow over his shoulder and pulled out his long white knives with handles made out of bone. The silver blur of his blades seemed to form some kind of shield around him; at least, it was what it looked like. No one could get under the elf's guard, or so it seemed.

The Wolverine charged and plunged his claws of his right hand through iron breastplate of one of the foul creatures. Logan could hear the squelch as his metal claws embedded themselves in flesh and cut through bone. Unfortunately, when he tried to pull his claws out, he found that they were trapped by the breastplate, and there was hardly any time to work them free. It was a most troublesome predicament, and extremely embarrassing.

One orc, seeing that it was impossible to take down the elf at a close range, loaded his crossbow and took aim. However, he did not count on Logan seeing him.

Logan still could not free his claws. Instead, he swung his arm, with the corpse still hanging from his claws. He knew something about Physics, and he prayed to whoever was listening that his hypothesis would be right. Someone must have been listening, for he was correct. The momentum of the swing loosened the dead orc. The body flew several feet, straight into the path of the crossbow bolt.

"That was absolutely disgusting, Logan," said Legolas as Logan reached him.

"That absolutely disgusting act of mine saved your life, pal. Anything's a weapon when I get my hands on it," said Logan. "Just because it's biological material doesn't make it any different." The two stood back to back, facing the advancing orcs. The creatures were wary now, having discovered the hard way that these two were not easy prey. However, they still had the numbers, and sooner or later, the elf and the man would fall, unless they could somehow break through their ranks.

"I don't like the odds," whispered Logan to Legolas. The elf simply rolled his eyes, even though it was pointless. Did Logan think that he liked these odds? The orcs continued to surge forward, using the bodies of the dead comrades as shields. However, there must not have been as many as Logan had thought there had been, for he suddenly saw a weak spot in the orcs' ranks. He dived forward, snarling, with claws extended. Not expecting this sudden move, and indeed, intimidated by it, the orcs parted just enough for him to break through.

"Come on, Leggy!" he said, forgetting everything that Strider had told him about the elven prince. Legolas, to his credit, knew what his priorities were. He dashed out after Logan and quickly caught up with the man.

"Aragorn would not have done that," said the elf.

"Strider doesn't have claws," panted Logan. The orcs were right behind them; how could Legolas have time to compare him to the ranger? He dodged around stone after stone, using all the agility that he possessed to avoid crashing into them. While it was certain that they wouldn't do him much lasting damage, he didn't especially appreciate concussions. Legolas seemed to have no such trouble. He did, however, keep on glancing backwards. Logan wasn't sure whether the elf was trying to see how far behind the orcs were or how far behind he was. At any rate, he didn't care. He just wanted to be out of here before he became orc food.

* * *

"Something is not right," said Aragorn. The sun was almost touching the western horizon. Hues of red streaked the sky like bloodstains. The ranger was uneasy; it was not like Legolas to be so late. Surely the elf would have caught something by now. "I am going to search for them."

"Aragorn, do not be too rash," said Gandalf. The old wizard sat on a relatively flat rock, smoking his pipe. He blew out a ring of smoke. In the dying light, the ranger could see that his old friend's brow was furrowed. He, too, was worried. "Legolas must have a reason for being late."

"Usually, when Legolas is late, he is in trouble," said Aragorn. "That is the only reason that I know."

* * *

They seemed to have lost the orcs. The only problem was that they simply seemed to be lost. "Great," muttered Logan as he kicked at the ground. "Just great. No dinner, things on our trail, and I'm stuck out here in the wilderness with something that...glows in the dark...Uh, Legolas, are you supposed to be fluorescent?"

Legolas whipped around. Logan was asking him whether he was 'floral scented'? At least, that was what it sounded like. It was one of the oddest questions he'd ever heard. "I beg your pardon?" said the elven prince.

"Oh, you know, glowing," said Logan, indicating something vaguely with his hands. "I mean, you're not glowing a lot, but I can see it."

"Elves do glow," said Legolas. "When they cease to, it means they are near death, or dead."

"Oh, that's a nice indicator," said Logan. "I guess you guys don't go for pulses, eh? But wouldn't being fluorescent make you an easy target?"

"There is a reason why I tend to duck behind things when there is something targeting me," said Legolas. "As in _now_!" He grabbed Logan by the arm and pulled him behind a rock just as an arrow struck where his head had been.

"I thought we'd lost them!" shouted Logan as they began running again. These orcs were incredibly irritating, and persistent. Why did they have to follow him and Legolas? Weren't there other things to chase?

"And I had thought that I had seen the last of you in Rivendell!" replied Legolas. "Assumptions are not always correct!" Just as his assumption that his plan would work had not been. His keen eyes scanned his surroundings for some form of protection, or some way to get them out of this. It was all rock. What had he been thinking, coming here? It was impossible to get out of this labyrinth with its hard jagged obstacles. The stones did not speak to him. They had no love for him, a son of the forest, just as he had no love for them either. And then, darkness. No, not just darkness, but a cave behind yet another pile of rock. It was somewhere to hide. He hated hiding from his enemies, but with such overwhelming odds, what else could one do? Grabbing Logan by the arm, he all but hauled the man into it and then clapped his hand over the man's mouth as he began to speak.

The Valar must have been smiling upon them, for the orcs did not seem to see that there was a cave, and continued to run. The sound of their iron-shod feet hitting rock and their snarling faded into the distance. The two of them remained still as silent. Finally, Logan put his ear to the floor of the cave. It was damp. He could only hear a faint rumble, which meant that their pursuers were already far away.

"I guess we're safe for now," he said, sitting up again.

"Safe, and lost," said Legolas, "and in a cave, albeit a small one."

"At least we're not lost _inside _a cave," said Logan. "Not that it would be much of a problem. I can probably smell my way out."

* * *

The stars appeared one by one, like faraway lanterns. They gave Legolas some comfort with their familiar presence. Night breezes brushed the elf's face. Only Logan's snores and occasional grunts broke the silence. Danger was long past, and they had succeeded in leading it away from the Fellowship. The elf had no doubt that once the sun rose, they would be able to retrace their steps. 'And if not, I should put Logan's boast to the test and see whether he can smell his way out of a maze,' he thought.

The others must be worried by now. He wondered if they would stay behind and wait for him and Logan to return, or if they would simply set off. After all, they were on a quest of utmost importance, and they could not afford any delays.

* * *

Logan woke when the first rays of sunlight hit his face. He rubbed his face with filthy hands, trying to get rid of the last vestiges of sleep. There was a cramp in his neck. He turned his head, causing the joints to click. Legolas stiffened at the sound, although the elf must have known that he was awake. "Must you insist on doing that?" he demanded.

"It feels good," said Logan.

"It does not sound good. You are not the only one with sensitive hearing, Master Logan."

"Yeah, well, get used to it. It's what I do." He looked around. "No breakfast?" The elf finally turned and gave him a cold stare. "All right, I get your warning. Geez, you're in a bad mood. Come to think of it, I'm not in such a good mood myself." This definitely was not one of his best mornings. He'd slept in the wrong position all night, and he was starving. He hadn't eaten anything since lunch the day before. He reached for his pocket to pull out a cigar. Even if he couldn't eat, he could smoke, right? This was definitely one of those moments when he needed something to make him feel a little better. As he did so, his hand bumped against the small silver flask which Elrohir had given him. He hadn't given it much thought, until now. What was inside? He'd never even thought to look, having been much too occupied with catching up with the others.

Now, he unhooked the flask from his belt. The sunlight reflecting off the silver surface caught Legolas' eye. "What is that?" asked the elf.

"I dunno," said Logan. "Elrohir gave it to me and said that I should use it when I needed extra energy or something." He handed the flask to Legolas, who removed the stopper and cautiously sniffed at the contents. "Is it some sort of elven energy drink?"

"This is miruvor, Logan," said Legolas, looking at the flask as if he could not believe himself. "Elrohir gave you miruvor. Why would he do that?"

"Technically, Lord Elrond gave it to me _through_ Elrohir," said Logan. "What's mee-roo-vor anyway?"

"It is something which warms the body and gives it strength," said Legolas. "It was a thoughtful and gracious gift indeed." He replaced the stopper and handed it back almost reverently. "Keep it safe, Logan. We might have need of it during the quest."

"You think?" said Logan. He glanced at the sky. It looked as if it had been painted in shades of pink and orange. No chance of rain today. He was glad. Hunger and uncomfortable wetness would have been too much for him. He would have needed to punch something if it had been a wet day. "Come on. I want to look for the others."

"Do you truly think you are the only one who wants that?" asked Legolas. "I was only waiting for you."

"Yeah, yeah, sure you were, pret—Legolas."

"I see you have learned that I do not make empty threats." The elf looked most satisfied. "If you continue like this, Logan, I believe we might be friends after all."

Logan glared at Legolas. He did not appreciate being treated like a misbehaving child. Of course, he probably was a child in the elf's eyes. It was hard to tell how old Legolas actually was. For all he knew, the elf could be somewhere between five hundred and three thousand years old. His one hundred and twenty years would not seem like much, not that it gave the elf any excuse to treat him as anything less than an accomplished soldier and adult. "Are you always that condescending?" he demanded.

"Of course," said Legolas without even pausing to think of a rebuttal. "I am royalty."

"And I feel like committing treason right now," muttered Logan as he followed Legolas in their search for a way out of this maze. "Boy, am I glad we abolished the monarchy in the States."

* * *

**A/N: **I hope you enjoyed the chapter.


	13. Dead Orc, Live Orc

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize. I'm just borrowing them for this tale.

**mary-emy: **Indeed, the 'tenth walker Fellowship' is complete. :) Thank you for the review.

**Chapter 13: Dead Orc, Live Orc**

The path became increasingly steeper as Aragorn followed Legolas and Logan's trail. The rocky ground yielded very few clues, but occasionally, he would find a scattering of gravel where someone, presumably the heavier Logan, had slipped. So far, he had found no signs of trouble, and his friends' disappearance only became more mystifying. It was frustrating to have searched all morning and found nothing. Behind him, Boromir was scanning the horizon, hoping for a glimpse of their missing companions.

"Have you found anything yet?" the Gondorian asked of the ranger.

"Very little," replied Aragorn. "It worries me—wait..." He glimpsed something in the near distance; the dull gleam of unpolished metal. Clambering over rock, with Boromir not far behind him, he made his way over to the metal to see what it was. What he found made his breath catch in his throat and his heartbeat quicken.

"Orcs," said Boromir, voicing the thoughts of both men. Aragorn only nodded. His eyes were fixed on the carcasses. He would recognize those arrows with their golden fletching anywhere. In his mind, he pictured the scene. There were many of these foul beings. He could see the scratches on the rock from their iron-shod feet. Judging from the way the dead orcs had fallen, he followed the presumed path of the two arrows.

"The orcs only found Logan and Legolas because they wanted to be found," said the ranger. Yes, he could see what had happened now, and it was just like Legolas to do such a thing. Logan, of course, would be in total agreement. No matter the difference in their temperaments and behaviour, they both had one thing in common; good noble hearts. "They tried to gain the orcs' attention, and they succeeded."

Boromir could clearly follow Aragorn's line of thought. He glanced back in the direction from which they had come. "The orcs were heading towards the camp," he said. "Legolas and Logan were trying to lead them away, using themselves as bait."

"Exactly," said Aragorn.

"I have a bad feeling about this," said Boromir. "Bait usually does not get a good end, in my experience."

"Let us hope that Legolas and Logan proved to be very hard to catch," said Aragorn.

* * *

"Logan, you said you could smell your way out of a cave if you ever became lost in one," said an increasingly irritated Legolas. The rocks seemed to close in around him, entrapping him in this labyrinth. He felt as if he was suffocating, and the complete lack of space around him was making him lose his sense of judgement.

Logan stopped sniffing and glared at the elf. Legolas' feelings were not at the top of his priorities at the moment. Anyway, he did not know why the elf was being so moody. Did Legolas really expect him to work miracles? "In a cave, it would've been fine coz I would've just followed the currents of fresh air. This is different."

"It is still rock," said Legolas. He absolutely hated this place. It was so confining. One of his worst fears was becoming trapped, and he definitely felt trapped in here. The rocks all around him were stifling his coherent thoughts. His mind simply screamed at him to get out of there, no matter the cost.

"Rock has nothing to do with it, unless you are a geologist, and can identify all kinds of different rock," said Logan. "I'm not one of those, and it all looks the same to me." He turned his face up, as if trying to catch a scent. "There are draughts of fresh air everywhere, so it's definitely not helpful. Secondly, the smell of orc is all over the place. I don't want to follow the wrong scent trail and run smack-bang into those things again. Why don't you try and remember which way we came from if you're so impatient?"

"I was not paying any attention to the direction we were running in yesterday," said Legolas. "If you can recall, we were being pursued by at least a hundred orcs which wanted to make a meal of us. You might not think much of them, being almost indestructible, but I find them rather distracting. If the smell of the orcs is everywhere and fresh air is no help, then what scent trail are you looking for?"

"Our scent trail," replied Logan. "I have to say, it's rather hard to find since I can smell us very clearly. And smoke, of course. I think —I hope— the others have lit a fire, and that someone is smoking a pipe."

"That is a foul habit," said the elf, shaking his head.

"Geez, as if being lost in a maze with no food and very little water is not enough, I'm stuck with a health nut!" said Logan.

"I am not a nut," said Legolas. He had a distinct feeling that he was being insulted, but he could not, for the life of him, see how the word 'nut' could be insulting in any way.

"Slang, pal; slang," said Logan. He smirked. This was fun. It wasn't often that he saw an utterly confused elf. They were always so regal and stoic. Hardly anything could unnerve them. They had probably seen almost everything there was to see in their many thousands of years of life. Only, in all their years, they had never met the Wolverine. If only he had a camera of some sort to capture the way Legolas was looking now.

"So what does 'nut' mean in your language?" demanded Legolas.

"It can mean the edible thing that's crunchy," said Logan.

"Which is exactly what it means here," said Legolas.

"Or it can mean someone who's completely off their rocker..."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

"Uh...a madman, basically."

"You called me a madman?"

"Actually, I called you someone who was mad about health because you don't like smoking."

"There is nothing 'mad' about not liking the smell of smoke. It is foul."

"And it can also mean...maybe you don't want to hear this because this was _not_ what I meant when I called you a nut..."

"What does it mean, Logan?"

"I'm pretty sure you don't wanna know."

"I am quite certain that I do."

"All right, you asked for it, so don't blame me if you think it's rude or something."

"Logan, please answer my question."

"Uh—why am I stuttering like a bloody teenager?—testicle."

There was a moment of silence. "You call a testicle by the same name as you would call a dry fruit in a shell," said Legolas flatly. "And _you_ call me mad?"

"It's just the way it is!" said Logan. "There's nothing weird about it. I mean, it's like...it's just slang, okay?"

"They are not even related! One is meat, and the other is plant material!" The elf shook his head. "I am not going to view nuts in the same way again after this."

"Makes you feel queasy, doesn't it?" said Logan. He did enjoy saying vulgar things at times, especially when it had an effect on people.

"No, not at all," said Legolas. "It is not uncommon to find a dish composed entirely of testicles. In fact, some might even consider them to be a delicacy." It was the elf's turn to grin. "I do not become queasy, Master Logan."

"Really?" said Logan. Now _that_ was unexpected, although it made complete sense to him. People wasted so much food just because they thought that some parts of an animal were not edible, when in fact, all parts were edible. He'd lived in the wild and he knew the importance of using all parts. Even the bones had value. Bone marrow was quite nutritious, and not bad tasting at all. Of course, when one was starving, everything tasted good.

"It is wasteful to not utilize every part of the animal," said Legolas. "A creature gave its life so that we may consume its body and be nourished by it. It would be an insult to the animal not to make use of every part of its body."

"I'd never thought of it that way," said Logan, "but your elven philosophy kinda makes sense to me. And that's a compliment, by the way. I don't like philosophy."

"I take it your people do not view things the same way," said Legolas.

"No way," said Logan. "If you told them you ate testicles, they'd be sickened. Actually, people throw away perfectly good meat just because it's a little old."

"You must have an incredibly wasteful culture," observed the elf.

"Oh yeah," said Logan. "We've got too much, and people start getting picky."

"Indeed," said the elf. "I cannot imagine how much you have if you throw away meat simply because it is not the freshest. Such opulence."

"Such fancy language," said Logan.

* * *

"Marks on the rock," said Aragorn, bending down to examine the scratched surface of the stone. "Three parallel lines."

"Logan's claws," said Boromir. He was examining the scattered arrows. Most of them were of orc make, but he could find quite a few of Legolas', mostly buried deeply in dead orcs. "Our friends put up a good fight." One oddity caught his eye. An orc arrow protruded from an orc corpse, but the orc also bore the distinctive marks of Logan's claws. "Do you think Legolas ran out of arrows?"

"It is possible," said Aragorn, coming over to examine the corpse. "I know he did not bring very many with him. He prefers to travel light and to make them when he had need of more. But why would Logan stab an already dead orc?"

"Maybe it was not dead enough for him," said Boromir wryly. "With Logan, it is hard to tell."

Aragorn straightened himself with a sigh. "At least there is no sign that either Legolas or Logan is hurt. If anything, they put up a fierce defence and got away with it. See these broken orc arrows? Some of them have parallel notches along the shaft; no doubt this is Logan's work. And here are a few more of Legolas' arrows. They must be somewhere ahead, where the terrain becomes even rougher. It is a good place to try and lose the orcs, and Legolas would have known that. I suspect that they became lost themselves."

"I pray that you are right," said Boromir. He stepped over the dead orcs and picked his way between the rocks as he followed the ranger in pursuit of their missing friends. They found more traces of fighting. Dead orcs were quite noticeable, not only because they were big, but because the crows had already gathered for the morbid feast. All they had to do was to follow the cawing. However, the rough terrain deterred their progress. It took much energy to continuously clamber over rocks.

While they found signs of orcs, their friends remained elusive. Aragorn knew that they could not linger for too long, especially now that there were orcs about. No matter what had happened to Legolas and Logan, the Fellowship had to move on. Valar willing, their friends would be able to follow them and they would be reunited.

"Should we search for a little longer, do you think?" said Boromir. He sat down on a flat rock and glanced at the sky. Soon, it would be nightfall. They needed more time. "We know that there is a big chance that they are alive."

"Yes, but I think we have already tarried for far too long," said Aragorn. "The quest must go on with all haste. Sauron will not wait."

"And so we leave our friends out here to fend for themselves," said Boromir. "That does not sit well with me."

"It does not sit well with me either, but what choice do we have? I have faith that if Legolas and Logan are alive, they will find us."

"You are right, I suppose." Boromir sighed. "I feel as if I am betraying them by leaving them out here alone." He kicked a small rock in frustration, causing it to roll down the slope, clattering as it went.

"I think they would do the same if they were in our place," said Aragorn. He clapped Boromir on the shoulder. "Come. The Fellowship awaits."

"The Fellowship has already separated, and we have not yet reached the Gap of Rohan," said Boromir.

* * *

"Do you think Strider and Boromir found the other two?" Pippin whispered to Merry. Everyone was eager to get their missing companions back. It was terrible, not knowing what had happened to them. Now the young hobbit had glimpsed what he thought were his returning friends, and he was eager for some sort of confirmation.

"I don't know, Pippin," said Merry. "They're still too far away for me to see clearly."

"I hope they're back," said Pippin. "I miss Logan, and Legolas and Gimli's arguing."

As the figures drew nearer, their hopes sank. There were still only two. They weren't sure which two, but that didn't matter. It still meant that two of their friends were missing.

"We found signs of them, but not them," said Aragorn when he reached the camp. Dust streaked the ranger's face, and he looked exhausted. Boromir wasn't faring any better. The man from Gondor uncorked his waterskin and poured some onto his face to wash off the dirt and sweat.

"If only we had more time," he said.

"Time is not something which we have a lot of," said Gandalf. He had been sitting there, smoking in silence. Now, he blew out a cloud of smoke and then put out his pipe. His head was bowed. The old wizard was as worried as the rest of them, and he felt guilt too, for he was the one who was in charge, and already the Fellowship had lost two of its members. "We must move on."

"They're not dead, are they?" asked Pippin.

"No, they're not," said Aragorn. "In fact, I am pretty certain that they are alive, which only vexes me more because I loathe leaving them out here alone."

"If they are alive, then they will be able to catch up, won't they?" ventured Merry. "I mean, Logan found us by smelling, and Legolas is very fast."

"I hope that is the case," said the ranger with a sigh. He sat down dejectedly and rested his arms on his knees, staring at the ground as if he wished it could tell him something.

Gandalf got up. "I have faith in Legolas and Logan," he said, looking each and every one of them in the eye. The wizard's stare was intense and full of conviction. "Both of them are accomplished warriors, and I quite certain that if they are alive, they will find us. However, we must set off immediately, and travel throughout the night. We have already wasted too much time." He needed them to believe. Elbereth, _he _needed to believe.

* * *

The stars were beginning to appear in the darkening sky. They were faint still, but Logan knew that by the time it was completely dark, it would seem as if all the inhabitants of the heavens had lit their lamps to counter the darkness. That did nothing to improve his mood. Then he suddenly stopped as a breeze brushed his face. There was a scent on the air; it was unpleasant, but to Logan, it also brought extremely good news.

"What is it?" asked Legolas.

"Good news," said Logan. "Dead orc."

"I do concede that a dead orc is better than a live orc," said Legolas, pretending to be completely oblivious to the meaning, but he was completely elated, and relieved. At last, they could get out of this place.

"Well, there is that," said Logan. "You wanna come see it?"

* * *

When Logan stumbled out of the labyrinth of rock, he almost felt the need to kiss the sparse grass. Almost, but not quite. He preferred to kiss women. "God! I never thought I would miss this empty landscape!" he said.

"We also missed something else," said Legolas. The elf was standing beside something dark on the ground. Logan went over to see what it was, and found himself looking down on the remains of a small campfire. "The Fellowship."

"I thought they'd wait, even if not for me then for you at least," said the Wolverine.

"I did not think that they would delay the quest for either of us," said Legolas. "If I were in their place, I would have done the same thing."

"Well, yeah, you didn't think twice about leaving me behind in Rivendell," said Logan. He sniffed. Ah, he knew the smell of horse manure well enough, and there seemed to be a relatively fresh pile of it nearby. He wrinkled his nose. "Look at that over there. If I'm right, and I'm pretty sure I am, that's Bill's."

"If it is, then they did linger to look for us," said Legolas. He turned south east. Logan could hardly see his expression in the dark, even if he did glow, but he could see the elf's silhouette with his head surrounded by a crown of stars. The light breeze tugged at his pale golden hair, which looked like silver in this dim light.

'Really, he is too pretty,' he thought with a snigger. A Hollywood starlet would die to have hair like his.

"Is there something amusing?" asked Legolas.

"It's only funny when you look at it from my point of view," said Logan. "Come on. If they're not far away, then we should be able to catch up pretty quickly."

"Of course we can," said Legolas. He leapt onto one of the rocks to give himself a better vantage point. "I can see them. They are not far away at all. In fact, I am certain that if I shouted, they would hear me."

"I can do the shouting," said Logan.

"I would rather you did not," said Legolas.

"Don't worry, I wouldn't," said Logan. "I know those orc things are still out there, and I really don't want to repeat our little adventure. Have you ever noticed that adventures are no fun while you're in them?"

* * *

Aragorn had faith in his friends, but he did not expected them to find the Fellowship so soon. In fact, he expected that it would at least take three days. Perhaps he had underestimated them.

A grey day dawned, bringing very little cheer with it. Everyone was sombre as they marched on, with each of them deep in brooding thought. The hobbits even lost their appetite. Then, as he tended to do, Logan shattered all solemnity. Well, his voice shattered it. Aragorn's first reaction was to draw his sword, thinking that they were being attacked again. Logan was not a quiet man, and when he wanted to be loud, he could be very loud indeed. In fact, his shouted greeting sounded more like a battle cry. No one knew what 'hola' meant. For all they knew, it could have been 'kill' in some other language which neither Aragorn nor Gandalf knew. But apparently, it was a greeting.

"I do not believe this," said Boromir. "We searched for them for an entire day and found very little. And once we give up, they appear."

"Legolas and Logan do love vexing people in one way or another," said Aragorn. "Especially Logan." He said that in an exasperated tone, but his expression made it very clear that he was anything but exasperated.

Legolas was the first to reach them. The elf had smudges of dirt on his face, but otherwise, he was as pristine as always. If Aragorn had not known better, he would have thought that Legolas had simply been travelling, and not fighting orcs. "I would have thought that you would have travelled faster to make up for the lost time," he said.

"Nobody wanted to leave you two behind, to be honest," said Aragorn. "And I see you left Logan behind."

"Not that far behind," said Legolas, turning around to see where the Wolverine was at. "It is no fault of mine that he is weighed down by his own skeleton."

"I can hear you!" hollered Logan. "It's not my fault that you have the flying sandals of Herpes —geez, where did that come from?— Hermes!"

"I do not have flying sandals," said Legolas. "In fact, I do not have sandals, let alone flying ones."

Logan finally caught up with the rest of them. Unlike Legolas, he looked as if he had climbed out of the Void. Orc blood stained his clothes and his skin. His hair, however, maintained its two peaks. "It's a metaphor," he said in between gasps for breath. "Do you people have the equivalent of the Olympic Games here?" At the confused looks, he sighed. "Right, you don't know what the Olympic Games are. It's a pity. Legolas would do so well in them."

Boromir clapped him on the shoulder. "When you have rested, and perhaps had something to eat, maybe you can tell us what these oh-limpet games are," he said as he handed Logan a water skin.

"Thanks, Boromir," said Logan, "and they're the Olym_pic_ Games. They can't be further from limpet-like behaviour." He washed the worst of the grime off his face and hands and then took a few grateful gulps of water, even if it was stale and leather-flavoured. "Ugh, this has to be the worst tasting water I've ever had." He drank some more. "What wouldn't I give for some beer?"

"You seem to like that water well enough, or else you would not drink so much of it," pointed out Gimli. The dwarf's voice was gruff, as it always was, but he was smiling so widely that one could hardly see his eyes. "I am glad you are back, and you too." The last few words were directed at Legolas. It was no secret that the elf and the dwarf were not fond of each other, and Gimli's words, although brief, held a lot of meaning. Legolas did not miss it. He inclined his head.

"Thank you, Master Gimli," he murmured. "I am glad to be back."

"Since Legolas and Logan are back, Gandalf, do you think we can celebrate by cooking second breakfast, Gandalf?" asked Pippin hopefully.

"Forget _second_ breakfast," said Logan. "I haven't even had my first."

"Please?" said Merry. "Logan and Legolas need to eat. They need to keep up their strength." He nodded very adamantly, and when Legolas opened his mouth to say that he was fine with just a little bread, Merry gave him a look which caused him to shut his mouth with much amusement.

"Bacon would be very good," said Logan. His stomach growled, as if to support his statement.

"There is no bacon to be had," said Gandalf sternly, although he was smiling. "How many times do I have to tell you that?"

"But there is second breakfast to be had, right?" said Pippin. Now that his companions were back, so was his appetite, and the youngest hobbit suddenly realized that he was famished.

"Considering we weren't in the mood for breakfast this morning, and thus did not eat it, I would say that this would be first breakfast," added the usually quiet and thoughtful Frodo. "Come on, Gandalf. You cannot make us march on an empty stomach."

"That would simply be too cruel," agreed Gimli. He winked at Pippin, who grinned back at him.

"It needn't take long, Mr. Gandalf," said Sam shyly. "My gaffer taught me a quick recipe with jerky and spices."

"Ooh, an untried recipe from Sam!" said Pippin. "Please, Gandalf?"

The wizard relented. He was so relieved about Legolas and Logan's return that he was in no mood to ruin the morning. "Oh, very well then, since you all seem to be in favour of the idea," he said. "But we can rest for no more than an hour and a half, and then we must march at a very quick pace."

"I am a very fast walker when my stomach is full," Pippin assured him.

"I thought you liked to put your feet up and smoke a pipe or go to sleep when your stomach's full," whispered Merry.

"Well, yes, that too," admitted Pippin sheepishly. "But I can walk much faster when I am not weak from hunger."

"Me too, Pippin," said Logan with a grin. "Me too."

"I think most people can walk faster when they are full as opposed to when they are faint with hunger," said Aragorn. "I might not look it, but I need food too if I am to march all day."

"Oh, you look it, Aragorn," said Legolas. "Your brothers are always saying how thin you are."

"You are not one to talk, Legolas. You are thinner than I am."

"I am not!"

"We can always measure you and see who's thinner," supplied Merry. "That is the best proof. I have string." Aragorn and Legolas both raised their eyebrows at the same time, causing the others to burst out into laughter. Even Gandalf could not hold back a chuckle.

* * *

The week passed with no incident, for which the Fellowship was truly grateful. After their last adventure, none of them were eager to have excitement in their lives so soon again. They were tired enough as it was. Gandalf proved to be an almost tireless traveller, and he drove them on with all haste. The hobbits were faring particularly badly. They were not used to travelling so far and at such a speed. For all of them, this was the first time they had been out of the Shire. Of course, none of them complained, and they struggled on valiantly, but everyone could tell that they were exhausted. And some of them were getting homesick.

Logan did what he could to help them, offering to help them with their packs and such. Sam, in particular, was weighted down with his cooking equipment, but he simply refused to part with it, the way a soldier would refuse to be parted from his weapons. They were reaching higher country, and the weather was getting colder. There was little grass here, as the soil seemed to be composed mostly of clay. Often, it was drizzling, and they seemed to be constantly damp. Logan paid it no heed; he didn't get sick. The others, however, were not so lucky. Frodo had developed a cold, and he sneezed once every few minutes. The hobbit looked absolutely miserable and pale. Even worse, cold medicine had not been invented in Middle Earth, and although Aragorn did what he could with the plants available, his concoctions were not as effective as the cold medicine which Logan could get for a few dollars at his local pharmacy.

"I should have packed more medicine," said Aragorn as Pippin sneezed into his dirty handkerchief again.

"You didn't know that we were gonna get sick," said Logan. "Don't give yourself hell about it."

"I am not quite certain what you mean, but thank you, Logan," said Aragorn as he packed up the many vials and stowed them away in his pack again.

"I wish we were back in the Shire," Pippin was saying. "We could give Frodo chicken soup, and perhaps tea with honey and a slice of lemon. He likes that."

"And pancakes with thick yellow cream fresh from the churn and the last berries of autumn," added Merry. "Hey, Pippin, we might not be able to get the pancakes and the cream and the lemon, but don't you think there would be wild berries out here, and wild honey, and maybe wild mushrooms too?"

"And maybe a pheasant or two," added Pippin excitedly, perking up. "It won't be chicken soup, but I'm sure Sam can make a lovely broth from a bird and some herbs, and we can make Frodo tea with honey. We have tea, and if we can't find honey, we can use sugar instead. I think that would cheer him up."

"We need help, though," said Merry. "We can't stop for very long, and there is such a lot we have to do if we're going to get Frodo his soup and tea."

"I bet Boromir would help," said Pippin. "He's always asking me if I need any. Help, that is."

"And Logan would help. He likes food, and he likes Frodo—not in the same way, of course," said Merry. "And, speaking of which, Logan's listening to us. His ears are twitching."

"And he's talking to Strider, who'll probably help too," added Pippin. "Strider is nice like that, even if he can be strict like my pa. Oh, look; Strider's talking to Legolas, and Legolas is nodding. Now we can be sure that we'll have our bird. He's a very good shot."

"So we just have to talk to Sam, and Gimli, and Gandalf," said Merry. "But not now. Strider's talking to Gandalf right now."

Surely enough, the ranger was murmuring something into the wizard's ear. Gandalf nodded, and Aragorn smiled before going off to tell Legolas. Soon, the elf and the ranger had wandered off. Merry was sure that they had gone off to find a pheasant or some other bird for Sam's pot.

Logan slowed down his pace and waited for the two youngest hobbits to catch up. "They've gone off to scout," he said with a wink. "Boromir and I are in charge of the herbs, which I think is a very bad idea because I can't tell marijuana from oregano."

"Oh no, Logan," said Pippin, looking horrified at the thought of his friend accidentally poisoning poor Frodo just because he couldn't see the difference between herbs and weeds. "Merry and Sam and me will take care of the herbs, and the mushrooms, if there are any. You can...uh, brew tea? What is 'marrow-wah-nah' and 'orange-gwa-no' anyway?"

"Marijuana is a...um...a weed which you shouldn't touch," said Logan. "And it's Or-re-gah-no, not orange guano. Guano shouldn't be orange."

"What's gwah-no, then?" asked Merry. Thankfully, Boromir, who had also fallen back to discuss this plan with the rest of them, interrupted the increasingly odd conversation before Logan had to talk about animal droppings and fertilizer.

"I think Logan and I should gather firewood," said Boromir. "I shall tell Sam what you are up to, so he will be prepared. Gandalf has heard your plans from Aragorn, and he will be the one to make sure that Frodo does not discover the surprise prematurely."

"Surprise?" asked Logan. "It's only chicken soup. Well, bird soup."

"Wrong, Logan," said Pippin. "It's bird and possible-mushroom soup made out here in the wilderness. I think it's pretty special."

* * *

**A/N: **This one is more of a filler chapter, for a rest in between all that action. I hope you enjoyed it anyway.


	14. The Wolverine and the Birds

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Disclaimer: **I do not own anything that you recognize; I'm just borrowing them for the purpose of this tale.

**CameoCorbin: **I'm glad you're enjoying the story, and thank you for your kind comments. I have not thought of sending the Fellowship into other universes, to be honest. Perhaps certain members, but not the entire Fellowship. It could be fun; I'm just not sure if I know enough about certain characters (i.e. Gandalf) to pull it off.

**Smiles: **I'm not going to put this story on hiatus, ever, so you don't need to worry ;). I post each week on Friday, and if I don't, it means something big has happened to either me or my computer.

_Thank you to all who have reviewed._

**Chapter 14: The Wolverine and the Birds**

Legolas and Aragorn returned not with one bird, but two. One of those animals had been pierced by two arrows, and both had hit vital areas. "That is complete overkill," said Logan as he set down his bundle of firewood on the still slightly damp ground. He was of the opinion that he had achieved no mean feat, as there were very few trees in this place.

With Gimli's help, they had felled a few and neatly split them into logs — or splinters, in some cases. Actually, that wasn't Logan's problem, but Boromir's. He'd forgotten to sharpen his axe, and was acutely embarrassed by the negligence. "No one's perfect, y'know," Logan had said to him as he had grimaced at the messy pile. "I mean, look at me. At least you didn't sing any songs about cannibalistic barbers who wanted to cut people's throats in Rivendell."

"Aye, that's true," Gimli had said as he had tossed another piece of wood onto the growing pile. "And we'll keep this between us, won't we, lads?" Boromir had smiled sheepishly at that and thanked them. He was always so polite, no matter what.

"Perhaps you have not noticed, Master Logan," said Legolas. "Those are two arrows of different designs. One of them is mine. The other belongs to Aragorn."

"We both shot it at the same time," said the ranger. "It just burst out of the brush. I thought it was trying to attack us."

"Still, it's overkill," said Logan. He glanced over to where Frodo was, sneezing into his handkerchief yet again, and not noticing that the entire Fellowship seemed to be hiding something from him. Merry and Pippin were busy washing the mushrooms and herbs they had found, and Sam was trying to coax Frodo into drink some of the sweet tea he had brewed. "Anyway, how are we gonna cook two birds in Sam's pot?"

"We could always roast one on a spit," said Boromir, who was watching the fire.

"The fire is a little too small to have both a bird and a pot hanging over it," said Aragorn, frowning.

"You just leave it to me," said Gimli. At their looks of surprise, he simply grinned and winked. "I am a craftsman and an artisan. The culinary arts happen to be very important to all dwarves, and I have learned one or two tricks. Although, someone else will have to pluck and gut those birds, because I am going to find what I need." With that, the dwarf went off, after having borrowed a saucepan from Sam. He stopped to examine the ground every few steps, peering very closely at it.

"I think we should simply leave him to it," said Aragorn. He took one of the birds. After extracting the arrows and dousing it in hot water, he began to yank out handfuls of feathers. It was easier to do so with the skin half-cooked. A mountain of fluff grew beside his feet, and the wet feathers did not fly everywhere, which was an added advantage.

Gimli soon returned, having gathered handfuls of what looked just like mud to Logan. "You're not going to make mud cake, are you?" asked the Wolverine. "Real mud cake is made with chocolate and flour, just in case you don't know."

"I have no intention of making cake, mud or otherwise," said the dwarf. "I do not make pastries, and I do not know what chook-coal-lit is either."

"Oh, right," said Logan. "This is purely old-world, isn't it? I mean, as opposed to the New World." His questions and statements were met with blank looks. He sighed and glanced up at the sky. "All right, all right. Just ignore me. It's not as if you will ever understand this anyway."

Taking one of the plucked and gutted birds, Gimli rubbed salt and herbs into the meat before stuffing some more herbs into the cavity of the bird's body. Then, to everyone's surprise, he coated the entire thing in mud.

"What are you doing?" said Merry in alarm. His mushrooms were forgotten. Pippin took this opportunity to eat a few more before the rest went into the pot with the other bird. "We can't eat muddy pheasant!"

"Calm down, young Master Meriadoc," said the dwarf. "This isn't mud. It's clay."

"In other words, another sort of mud," said Logan.

"Not exactly," said Aragorn. "Mud is composed of many types of earth, and once dry, it easily crumbles. This is clay, which means it can be shaped, dried, fired and glazed to make—"

"Yeah, I know you can make toilet bowls out of porcelain," said Logan, rolling his eyes. "It just looks like mud, though, y'know?"

"I was merely thinking of bowls and vases," said Aragorn. "You have ceramic latrines?"

"Maybe some people have not noticed," said Legolas drily, "but we are preparing the evening meal."

"And when preparing the evening meal, one should not be discussing latrines, no matter what they are made out of," added Boromir. He was eyeing Gimli's clay ball rather dubiously. The dwarf's grin simply widened.

"Now, I'll place this in the fire, and after we finish the broth, it should be perfect," he said. He said it with such confidence that he was almost able to convince them that he was right.

* * *

The soup smelled heavenly. Elvish cooking, with all its fancy layers of taste and whatnot was all very well, but sometimes, Logan preferred rich, simple food which did not have so many tastes mingling together to confuse his taste buds. Sam's soup matched the second description. The steam curling up into the air from the bubbling pot made the Wolverine's mouth water. He felt as if he had not had proper food with salt and herbs in a long time.

Slices of mushroom floated at the top of the soup. Well, it was more of a broth than a soup, but Logan didn't care. It was good enough in his book. Even Frodo, who could not possibly smell the...concoction, looked eager to try it. In fact, the sight of the cooking food —even if Gimli's bird did not look much like food at the moment— seemed to cheer him up.

Aragorn dug into his pockets. "I found some nuts," he said as he produced some handfuls of hard closed pods. "I thought we could roast them in the cinders or something after we're finished cooking."

Merry and Pippin looked extremely happy at the prospect of being able to add hot roasted nuts to their menu. As far as they were concerned, this entire meal was their idea, and they deserved much of the credit. No one would argue with them on that count, of course.

Upon hearing the word 'nuts', Legolas and Logan glanced at each other, and then Logan started chuckling. The elven prince was trying, without much success, to hide a very wide grin. Their reaction surprised everyone else, not so much because the others did not see what was so funny, but mainly because of the fact that Legolas and Logan seemed to both understand something which they did not.

"What's this?" asked Aragorn. "Legolas and Logan are sharing a private joke?"

"You sound surprised, Aragorn," said Legolas. "Logan and I had some interesting discussions while we were out in the wilderness alone."

"Would you care to share the joke?" asked Boromir. This only caused Logan to snort, and the shaking of his shoulders became even more noticeable.

"How strong is your stomach, Lord Boromir?" asked Legolas.

"I have a strong stomach!" said Boromir indignantly. "I am a soldier!"

"This calls for another type of 'strong stomach' entirely," Legolas assured him. "I have learned many fascinating things about Logan's world, and I am not entirely sure if this is any more appropriate for dinner conversation than latrines."

"I thought you were talking about nuts," interrupted Merry. "What can be so disgusting and inappropriate about nuts?"

"You have no idea," said the elf.

"Now you've made me even more curious," said Pippin. "Come on, Legolas. Do tell. It's not fair if you know, Logan knows, and the rest of us don't."

"_After_dinner," Logan insisted in between snorts of laughter. "Legolas can tell you after dinner."

"I had no intention of sharing this piece of information," said the elf. "Since you suggested it, Master Wolverine, you may have the honour of relaying the other meanings of the word 'nuts' in your language."

'Master Wolverine'. The name, title —whatever— sounded nice to Logan's ears. It rolled off the tongue nicely too. At least, it rolled off Legolas' tongue nicely; then again, everything sounded nice when it was being said by an elf. They had pleasant melodic voices and gentle lilting accents which made them sound like they were singing even when they were cursing. All right, maybe that was an exaggeration; Glorfindel's cursing hadn't sounded much like music, unless one was into all that angry yelling which some people considered to be metal. But, if Logan had been one of those people, he would have enjoyed listening to Glorfindel curse. It was a funny image, Glorfindel as a rock star. Logan could not imagine anyone who looked less like a rock star. Greek god —or goddess, certainly, but not rock star.

"Soup's done!" called Sam, pulling Logan out of his amusing —if completely off-topic— thoughts.

* * *

It was with much trepidation that they watched Gimli use two pieces of wood to roll his 'ball of mud' out of the fire. It had been blackened beyond recognition, and the outside now had an added layer of ash. Using one of his smaller axes, the dwarf cracked open the hard clay shell as if this was a giant egg. Delicious aromas issued from within the hard baked clay. Inside was a roasted bird with shiny crispy skin the colour of mahogany. The clay had sealed the flavours within so that nothing had been lost.

"Good God," said Logan. "Who knew that muddy chicken could smell so good?" He happily accepted a juicy thigh with grease dripping from it. There was the smell of clay clinging to the meat, but it was rather pleasant. Clay, it seemed, did _not_ smell like mud, even if it looked indistinguishable, at least to his eyes. Earth science had never interested him much; he lived on land, and that was it, as far as he was concerned.

"I have a new idea," said Gandalf. "Gimli and Sam should take turns at cooking, when we have the time to cook."

"We would, if you let us," said Pippin with his mouth full. "Gimli, this is wonderful. How did you think of it?"

"I did not think of it," said Gimli. He was glowing, partly from the fire, and partly from praise. "It is a recipe which has been passed down through generations of dwarves. We mine precious things from the earth and craft them. It is no surprise that we have also learned to cook with things taken from the ground."

"Maybe this is something which I can learn to make," said Boromir. "It is certainly very convenient fare when one is on the march."

"And no one has to wash anything," added Sam shyly. "I like that."

"That is very nice," said Pippin. "I do not like dishwashing duty. Especially not at parties."

"If you did not insist on getting up to mischief at parties," said Gandalf, "you would not have had dishwashing duty in the first place."

Frodo leaned over and murmured something into Merry's ear. The older hobbit still looked pale, and his nose was red, but his eyes were shining, and he seemed to be in a good mood after everything that the others had done to try and get him a good dinner. Merry grinned as he listened to Frodo, and then he cleared his throat.

"Our cousin would like to thank everyone for their efforts on his behalf —Frodo, did you have to make it sound so stuffy? — and secondly, he wants me to say that if you had not been caught making mischief, Pippin, you would not have had to do dishwashing duty."

"Hey! Most of the time I got caught executing your ideas!" protested Pippin. He pointed his half-eaten drumstick at Frodo.

"My plans would have been fine if you had been a little more subtle," said Frodo quietly. His sore throat and blocked nose made speaking loudly difficult. However, none could miss the mischievous tone. Perhaps there was more to this Ringbearer than they had thought.

Gandalf simply shook his head as he pulled out his pipe. "Hobbits," he muttered, and winked at those who heard him, namely Aragorn, Legolas and Logan. The hobbits would have heard him if they had not been so busy discussing their various party tricks.

"Well," said Aragorn. "I shall roast the nuts, and Logan, or Legolas, can tell us this inappropriate private joke concerning them."

"Well, not your nuts specifically," said Logan. And then he paused. "That sounded so wrong."

* * *

Apparently, Gandalf meant to take them through the Redhorn Gate —which was not a gate, but a comparatively easy to climb mountain pass— and thus cross over the snow-capped mountains which loomed on the horizon. Their peaks were mostly hidden by cloud, but on particularly clear days, such as this one, Logan could see them quite clearly, gleaming like pearly spires of a faraway mythical city in the pale sunlight. The landscape looked like a cross between Switzerland and Canada. He remembered the 'Gap of Rohan' and the 'Misty Mountains' from his geography lessons with Boromir, because unlike most other place names in Middle Earth, he could pronounce these without too much difficulty.

He was pleasantly surprised when Gandalf announced that they were in Holland. Sure, it was an old and obsolete name for the Netherlands, and 'Holland' in his world was part of what made up the 'low countries' — history lessons, like biology, could be absorbed through osmosis, at least some parts of them could. When it came to analyzing things and making arguments, he was completely lost.

This Middle Earth version of 'Holland' was, in fact, high country marked with a low ridge lined with holly bushes. A few red berries glistened amongst dark waxy leaves, but most of them were still green. It was not yet time for Christmas. That cheered him up somewhat. He was hoping that this whole business would finish by then, and like the soldiers in the First World War, he could look forward to spending Christmas at home—or in Rivendell. Did they even have Christmas in Middle Earth?

There was no sign of civilization to be seen. Of course, he was glad that the terrain was relatively flat compared to what they had been through. "This," said Gandalf, indicating the place with a wide sweep of his arm, "was once known as Eregion, and elves lived here. Those were happier days."

"They were indeed," said Gimli. "My forefathers worked there, in those mountains. Beneath them lie the legendary halls of Dwarrowdelf—Khazad Dûm, in my tongue. My cousin went there nigh on thirty years ago in hopes of reclaiming them."

"And?" asked Logan.

"I have not heard from him," said Gimli gravely.

"Oh," said Logan. He glanced around. Apart from them, and a few birds, there was no sign of life. Well, animal life. "I guess the postal service around here isn't all that efficient." That must have been the wrong thing to say, for Gimli gave him a dark look and then marched on ahead to speak with the wizard.

"It is no laughing matter," Aragorn murmured to the Wolverine, having heard the exchange between him and Gimli.

"Right," said Logan. "No jokes about dwarves and Drarrow—Dwawwoe—Drawwoe—that underground place. Geez, why does every name have to be a tongue twister?"

"Why do you insist on saying the wrong things at the wrong time?" asked Aragorn.

"I don't insist on doing it," said Logan. "I just do. Anyway, double negatives cancel each other out, so the wrong place at the wrong time would mean right place and right time."

"Two wrongs do not make a right," said Aragorn.

"But a negative number multiplied by another negative number makes a positive number," said Logan. The ranger gave up on trying to reason with Logan. The only thing he was achieving was making Legolas laugh so much that that the elf's shoulders were shaking. Silently, of course; Legolas was too subtle to laugh out loud.

"So," said Logan. "Why are all the names tongue twisters?"

"They just are, Logan," said Aragorn. "It's just the way things are, like the way the sun always sets in the west."

Gandalf was still outlining the path he meant for them to take. It involved a lot of flowery names like the 'Silver Load' and the Secret Wood which sounded as if they belonged in a fairytale. 'You are in a fairytale,' Logan told himself. 'You've made friends with elves and wizards and hobbits and dwarves; you're on a quest to save the world from some evil demon or something. It doesn't get more like a fairytale than that.'

"And then where to?" Merry was asking.

"And then...to the end," said Gandalf. He seemed hesitant. "The end of the journey." At the mention of their final destination, silence fell upon the company. They seemed to dread the thought. Gandalf didn't even say the name of the place.

"It's called 'More Doors', right?" ventured Logan.

"Elbereth!" said Legolas. "I pray to the Valar that there is only one of them. And I am certain that there is only one."

"Let us not think so far ahead," said Gandalf, "This is a wholesome land, for elves once lived here. Rest, and be glad that the first stage of our journey is over."

"How many stages are there?" asked Logan. A glower from Gandalf made him realize that, once again, he had said the wrong thing. The hobbits were absolutely exhausted, and they looked as if they did not want to know right now.

"I am not familiar with the elves who once lived here," said Legolas hurriedly, in order to distract them all. "The trees and grass do not remember them. Only the stones mourn their passing." To the others, it seemed to have some meaning. Logan, however, barely held back a snort of laughter.

"Are you high, Legolas?" he asked.

"I am not certain what that means," said the elf slowly. "Why do you ask?"

"You're talking to plants and rocks. Something must have short-circuited or...something. Right, no 'circuits' in Middle Earth, eh? But come on, you must know what a high is. I mean, you have coffee!"

Merry and Pippin glanced at each other as the Wolverine continued to ramble on. "Grammatically speaking, he's making sense," said Merry, "but I have no idea what he is saying."

"I think there's something wrong with Logan's head," remarked Pippin.

"Maybe he just needs some coffee," said Merry. "He did seem rather partial to it in Rivendell, and when he didn't get his morning cup, he would always seem a little out of sorts. Either way, it is amusing to watch. I don't think I've seen old Gandalf so confused before. If only we could draw him very quickly and then show him the picture later."

* * *

Logan opened one eye. It was still relatively early, and certainly no one was trying to make him get up. In fact, he could hear snores from many of his companions. Only two other people were awake. Strider and Sam were sitting with their backs to the rest of them, talking quietly. The ranger was smoking a pipe and looking into the distance. Logan turned as quietly as he could. His side was getting numb. As he moved, he caught sight of Legolas, who was lying on the ground with his hands crossed on his chest, and his eyes... Logan leapt up. "Holy shit!" he shouted. His claws erupted from between his knuckles.

At once, everyone sat upright, or scrambled to their feet, including Legolas, who had looked dead only moments ago. "What is it?" demanded Boromir, looking around frantically in an attempt to see the threat.

"Uh...I'm confused," said Logan. His claws slowly retracted.

"You woke us all up simply because you were confused?" said Aragorn. "Not to mention you also claimed that excrement was sacred in some way."

"It's not my fault!" said Logan, now pointing at an equally confused Legolas. "I thought someone had killed him in his sleep!"

"Oh," said Boromir. "Why would you think that?"

"His eyes were open, and he was lying as still as a corpse!"

"His eyes were open?" said Pippin.

"That's what Logan said," said Merry.

"Perhaps I should explain this before Logan can claim that some other vile thing is sacred," said Gandalf. Now that he knew there was no immediate threat, the old wizard looked rather amused with the whole situation. "Elves sleep with their eyes open when they are healthy. When you see an elf sleeping with his eyes closed, then he must be gravely wounded or afflicted with poison."

"That's helpful," said Logan. He pressed his lips together. Why couldn't they tell him these things before he embarrassed himself?

"We all react the same way when we first see an elf sleeping," said Aragorn, "if that is any consolation. Although, I must say that I doubt anyone has ever claimed that excrement was holy."

"That's just a phrase!" said Logan. "I know that shit isn't really holy, unless you're a dung beetle. It's like...it's like saying 'holy mackerel', 'cept I'm not British, so it just sounds weird."

"I guess mackerels are not as vile as excrement," said Boromir. "But I would not say they are holy either."

"The point is that they're not," said Logan. Maybe he should just quit using slang altogether while he was with these people. He hated having to translate his own sentences. "Look, we're just a weird bunch of people with weird phrases and words, okay? Just...forget it. It's too early in the morning."

"I don't think I can go back to sleep after that," said Pippin. His stomach growled, as if in agreement. "Besides, I'm hungry. Since it's so early, there should be time for breakfast, right?"

"I'll get the sausages," said Sam. "There are a few left."

"I don't suppose there will be time to search for birds' eggs?" said Merry hopefully.

"No, there definitely will not be," said Gandalf. "Sausages will be more than adequate, Meriadoc. If not for Logan's timely, if shocking, wake up call, you would be eating dried fruit for breakfast."

"I don't mind dried fruit," said Pippin, "but it gets boring after a few days of the same fare."

Soon they had a fire going. The day looked as if it was going to be grey and overcast again, possibly even with some drizzle. However, the prospect of sausages seemed to cheer up the hobbits, and their good mood seemed to affect everyone, possibly with the exception of Legolas, whose brow seemed to be perpetually furrowed this morning.

The elf had spoken to no one after that conversation about the way elves slept, and he kept on peering into the distance with narrowed eyes. His body was as taut as a drawn bow. He seemed ready to pounce, although no one could tell what was bothering him, and he was certainly not telling them. Logan had been about to ask the elf, but Aragorn had stopped him. "When Legolas is worried, he usually has his reasons," the ranger had said. "Legolas might not be a seer, but sometimes, he can sense that things are about to happen, even if he doesn't know what."

"You mean he's a watered down version of a fortune teller?" said Logan.

"Seers are not the same as fortune tellers," said Aragorn. "I have met both types of people, and they are vastly different. Seers have the gift of foresight, and they get visions when they do not expect them, or do not want them. Fortune tellers, on the other hand, are notoriously unreliable, and will tell all sorts of lies for a bit of coin. One tried to read my palm."

"Is that right?" said Logan, now completely distracted. "What did you do?"

Aragorn sat down and withdrew an apple from his pocket. "Let's just say that I discouraged her from doing so," he said as he began polishing the fruit on his tunic. Logan wondered which direction the germ transfer was in. If his nose was correct, then this was the same tunic the ranger had been wearing for the past two weeks. Of course, they could not afford to be too particular about laundry right now, but Logan certainly would not polish his apple on that tunic.

"Weren't you even a little bit curious?" he asked the ranger. What Strider did with his apple was his business.

"Why would I be curious when I knew that she would lie to me? I have had my future laid out before me ever since I was born. There can only be two outcomes."

Logan was about to ask what the outcomes were when he was distracted by the sound of metal striking metal. Automatically, he extended his claws, thinking that there was a fight. Instead, he turned to see that Boromir engaging Merry and Pippin in a mock battle to pass time while they waited for the sausages to cook. "Ugh," he muttered as he retracted his claws for the second time that morning without using them. "I'm getting paranoid."

"I suppose you do not want to explain the meaning of that word either?" said Aragorn.

"Definitely not, but I'll just say you're all paranoid," said Logan. He turned his attention to the two younger hobbits. They were going to need whatever Boromir was teaching them today. Pippin was slightly more agile than his cousin, but that could be attributed to the fact that he was slightly more light-hearted than the already light-hearted Merry, and he was simply lighter in build. Merry seemed to know the importance of the sword lessons, and sometimes, he thought too much about his moves, instead of simply letting his body respond. However, for first timers, they definitely weren't bad. They were better with swords than Marie was with a plane anyway.

Speaking of Marie, he wondered how she was doing now that he was not there to watch her. He'd been the mutant who'd taken her under his wing when she had been lost and frightened. Over the years, he had taken on the role of her guardian, if not her mentor. He had she reacted to the news of his disappearance? In fact, how were Storm and everyone else holding up? He wished he could know, but alas, there was no form of communicative technology which could let him contact people in what was possibly another dimension.

A yelp from Pippin brought him back to the present. He sniffed. Blood. Whoops; Boromir had been a little too optimistic about his pupil's progress. What had been an orderly mock swordfight turned into a wrestling match, with the two hobbits bringing down Boromir, although Logan was pretty certain that Boromir had let them do that on purpose. He was a big man, after all—not as big and heavy as Logan, certainly, but he probably weighed more than the two hobbits put together. At least, that was Logan's guess. Math had never been one of his strengths. All those numbers and symbols made him dizzy. Why did it have to be mostly in damn Greek anyway? As if learning one set of alphabet was not enough.

"Come on, Pippin!" called out Logan. "I mean, you don't have any cheerleaders, but we'll just have to make do in the wilderness."

"I think I shall just pretend to understand you and not respond," said Aragorn. He got up, still chewing on his apple. "All right, gentlemen, that's enough of rolling in the dirt. There are sausages that need eating."

Oddly enough, the promise of sausages did not seem to be enough to entice the two young hobbits. Instead of getting off Boromir, as Aragorn had thought they would, they simply reached out and pulled out his legs from under him. Caught off guard by this most unexpected move, Aragorn lost his balance and fell onto his back. The impact of the rough landing drove the breath from his lungs. Logan cheered the hobbits on. At last, a fun morning! Well, fun for most of them. Legolas was still standing on that rock, peering into the distance and trying his best to look like Robin Hood. It was not as if there was anything to see. The only thing in the distance was a dark cloud, which was not surprising, as the entire day was grey and overcast. Surely a little rain was not enough to make the sarcastic elf silent and sullen?

"What sorcery is that?" asked Gimli, who also seemed to think that the dark cloud was more than just a cloud.

"A rain cloud, perhaps?" said Logan. "Maybe a bit of thunder and lightning?"

"It is an unusually dark cloud," said Boromir, "and it is moving against the wind."

"I do not think that is a cloud, Logan," said Aragorn.

"Wait...now that you say it," said Logan. "A mini-hurricane?"

"It is not the weather, Logan," called Legolas. The elf did not bother turning around. "Those are crebain!"

"Hide!" shouted Aragorn. "Douse the fire! Scatter the ashes! Sam, hide Bill! Logan, cover the packs and then get behind something!"

"What the hell is crab wine?" demanded the Wolverine. However, he did as the ranger asked him. After all, the man had given him no reason not to trust him. Having dragged a couple of branches from nearby thorn bushes over the bags, he wedged himself into a cramped space between two rocks just as a flock of cawing dark birds flew overhead. There were so many of them that the flapping of their wings was just a thrum in the background. Logan had seen crows before, and he had to say that these were abnormally large crows. Perhaps mutant crows?

The birds circled above them a few times, as if they were looking for something. It was odd behaviour. Perhaps they had seen the sausages and they wanted a free meal. That was the only explanation Logan could think of. Either way, he was quite certain that they were all overreacting. The Wolverine did _not_ hide from bloody birds!

The creatures left after what seemed like a tediously long time. No one came out of their hiding places until it was absolutely certain that the birds were gone. "Can someone please explain to me why we were hiding from mutant crows?" demanded Logan.

"Those are not crows, Logan, no matter how much they resemble those birds," said Gandalf. "Those crebain are the spies of Saruman —the bad wizard, to put it simply."

"What is this Sah-roo-Mahn?" said Logan, scoffing. "Doctor Doolittle? They're birds, for God's sake! Are they gonna say, 'they're here, master. Polly wants a cracker'?"

"This is serious, Logan," said Aragorn. "Those birds are not natural. This route is being watched."

"By the Feathered Bureau of Intelligence?" said Logan.

"Suffice to say that we cannot remain here," said Gandalf. "We must hurry. I intend to reach the Pass of Caradhras by tomorrow afternoon." At that, everyone stilled, and Boromir let out a sigh.

"Caradhras is cruel and treacherous," he said. "I do not think it is the best course of action."

"What's the Pass of Carrot Dress?" said Logan. "If you tell me we're going to have to dress up in bright orange frocks, I am going to kill someone."

"Thank the Valar we are not dressing up in bright orange frocks, then," said Legolas, managing to keep his face and tone serious. "Now that you put it that way, Caradhras seems to be the more pleasant option. What do the rest of you say?"

"I wouldn't know about that, Son of Thranduil," said Gimli with a grin. Perhaps it was not the most sensible thing to do, but the rest of the Fellowship seemed to need cheering up, and he did enjoy making fun of the elf. "I would pay your weight in gold to see you in an orange frock."

"But would _you_dress up in an orange frock just to see Legolas in an orange frock, Gimli?" asked Pippin in all innocence. Only the mischievous gleam in his eye gave him away.

"Enough about orange frocks!" said Gandalf in exasperation. "There will be no orange frocks, or frocks of any sort! There are no lasses in this company. I should hope not, anyway."

"An orange frock might be an improvement on Gandalf's grey tent," said Merry with a shrug.

"We shall never know until we test it," said Frodo. He had to admit that he was terrified about the prospect of climbing that steep snow-covered mountain, but he was glad that he had these people to support him. Somehow, even during the direst of circumstances, they could still manage to jest and make everyone laugh, or at least grin. Everything seemed easier to bear when one was laughing.

* * *

**A/N: **Gimli's recipe is an actual Chinese recipe. Translated, it's called 'Beggar's Chicken' because apparently, beggars used to cook their stolen chickens like that. Traditionally, the bird is only cooked with salt, as beggars in China did not have access to herbs (herbs don't grow well in China's soil, which has high clay content). I've never tasted 'Beggar's Chicken', and I don't think one can recreate this recipe using an oven. Best not to try, anyway, just in case the clay shell explodes or something just as disastrous happens.

I hope you enjoyed the chapter.


	15. The Wolves and the Wolverine

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything that you recognize; I'm just borrowing them without permission for the purposes of this tale. **

**Darcy: **I'm glad you're still enjoying the story. I completely sympathize with your situation. I'm a university student, and often stay up late to finish projects, check essays and whatnot, and thus come up with strange ideas and comments. :) Your review is much appreciated. Logan will eventually find out that Aragorn is going to be king, but probably not until someone actually states it very clearly. Yes, I am going through all three books. I might post them as three separate stories though, just so I can avoid having things like 'chapter eighty' or something like that.

_Thank you to everyone who reviewed._

**Chapter 15: The Wolves and the Wolverine**

The snow and the cold were no strangers to Logan; after all, he was Canadian. He did wish that he had a pair of sunglasses though. The light reflecting off the snow was dazzling, and almost blindingly bright. He had to keep his eyes narrowed at all times, and he hoped that he was not going to get snow-blindness. That would be awfully inconvenient. He might be able to hear and smell where his enemies were coming from, but he also preferred to be able to see them so he could stick his claws into them. The slopes of the mountain were steep, which made the march all the more difficult, especially since their feet sank into the loosely packed snow. Actually, most of them found it difficult. Legolas, for some unscientific reason or another, could walk on top of the snow, and he seemed to be treating this like a casual tramping trip instead of a journey to some hellish place called 'More Door', which, incidentally, had nothing to do with doors.

Logan had asked Aragorn about the elf's ability to walk on top of the snow, and the ranger had simply shrugged and said that it was an 'elven trait'. Whatever it was, it was bloody annoying to see how easy it was for Legolas while the rest of them were sweating and puffing as they tried to plough their way through the snowdrifts.

The air began to feel thin as they climbed further and further up the mountain. The pale sunlight, when it was there, did little to warm them. The icy fingers of the wind clawed at their faces, and they could always hear its constant piercing whistle. It was like a warning. But what could they do? This was the only way. Logan figured that it would be more difficult for the hobbits and Gimli. After all, sometimes the snow drifts went up to their waists. However, they valiantly bowed their heads and pushed on forwards. There was not a single complaint, not even from Pippin.

And then, the blizzard struck. Of course, they had been expecting a storm or two as winter rolled in, but this blizzard had come at the worst time possible. The snow swirled on the air currents. It flew into their eyes, their mouths. Some of it even worked its way under their clothes as trickles of icy water. Visibility was very limited. The only thing Logan could see were different sized dark shapes. Sometimes, he could identify some of those shapes when they were decidedly different from the others —such as Bill. However, the pony was the least of his concerns. It was so easy to lose a hobbit in this.

To make things even worse, the slope had turned into a winding path nestled against a sheer stone cliff, encircling it like a serpent, or tinsel on a Christmas tree. Soon, Logan felt as if he was swimming in ice. He had changed places from the back of the column to the front of it, as they needed him to help clear out a path so that the others could walk through. His claws cut through the packed snow easily enough, but they were not designed to be shovels, and no one had thought to pack a shovel. Most of the time, he, Aragorn and Boromir simply had to shove the snow aside, using their arms like giant paddles. Who would have thought that the Wolverine, a ranger who seemed to be more than just that, and the son of the Steward of Gondor would become snowploughs? Not that Aragorn and Boromir would know what snowploughs were, of course. That joke would probably be lost on them, so Logan didn't even bother mentioning it. It was a waste of energy, and he was not in the mood for telling jokes.

Before they had gone up the mountain, Boromir had suggested gathering faggots —the firewood kind— and Logan was wondering when they were going to use them. There was not much, but he would really appreciate some light and warmth right now. And hot coffee. 'You're dreaming, Logan,' he told himself. He couldn't help it. All he could think about was hot coffee, pancakes smothered in cream and topped with strawberries, and glazed donuts which he could heat up in the microwave. Of course, the thought of all those wonderful things didn't make him _feel_ much better, but at least he could concentrate on them and try and take his mind off how wet he was. And he was wet, and freezing. The snow had melted against his skin, and his jeans were soaked. Just as well he didn't sicken easily. Aragorn's medicine had smelled foul, and instead of something like a spoonful, he would have to drink cups of it. Then again, who could light a fire outdoors in this sort of weather without an accelerant?

"This is a most unnatural storm, Gandalf!" shouted Boromir. "In Gondor, we say that the enemy can control the weather. I think he is using it against us!"

"Then his reach has grown too long, and we must hurry before it grows even longer!" said Gandalf. "Going back will take too much time!"

"But we can't just march on without takin' a rest!" protested Logan. "The hobbits are practically buried in the snow, and this snowplough needs to refuel." Oh, wait. Why did he have to mention the snowplough? He really did not want to explain the concept of cars and internal combustion engines. That would be a real nightmare. "Oh, just ignore me. I'm kinda tired and not thinkin' clearly. But I mean it. We need a break or else we'll all die of exhaustion before we even get down the mountain, much less reach 'More Door'.

"Stop saying the name, Logan!" said Aragorn. "You are demoralizing us all!"

"But Logan is right," argued Boromir. "We do need a rest." He jerked his head in the direction of four miserable hobbits snuggling up against each other and Bill in order to warm themselves. Their faces were pale and they were shivering violently while they blew on their hands to try and bring some feeling back into them.

"And I think it's time to use all that wood we got," said Logan. "No point in carrying it all up the mountain when we're not going to use it."

"Gandalf?" said Aragorn. "If we are to rest, then this is a good place for it. The cliff here overhangs slightly and offers some shelter against the storm." The wizard sighed.

"Fine," he said. "We shall rest. Night is falling. However, I want you all to be ready to continue with our journey tomorrow at dawn; have I made myself clear? This is not a hobbit walking party."

"Wanna tell us something new?" said Logan. "We get you." Geez, that old wizard would make any drill sergeant proud. Who could tell by just looking at him? He slipped his pack from his shoulders and let it fall to the ground. Legolas and Gimli were already trying to light a fire, but a flame simply wouldn't take hold on the wet wood. It was not for a lack of trying; Legolas and Gimli were both extremely competitive. Logan had gotten the idea that elves and dwarves weren't particularly fond of each other, and these two were putting their mutual hostility into the fire-starting competition. A stalemate was probably not what they were looking for.

A shivering Sam wrapped another blanket around his master. Frodo now resembled a silkworm's cocoon. Only his face could be seen. "How are you guys managing?" Logan asked.

"It's a little too chilly for my liking," said Merry, trying to sound less miserable than he really was.

"I like snow," added Pippin, "I mean, when I'm inside with a hot cup of mulled cider in my hand and a stew bubbling in my ma's pot."

"I don't mind it when it's nice and quiet, and the snow's just fallin' and all," said Sam. He glanced up at the sky. "Blizzards ain't my thing, if you get my meaning, sir."

"I get you completely, Sam," said Logan. "You'd have to be a polar bear to feel comfortable in this—a polar bear is just a type of bear which you don't have to worry about." He turned to Frodo. "How about you? How are you holding up?"

"I'll feel much better when that fire's going," said the oldest hobbit, giving Logan the barest of smiles in order to try and assure the Wolverine that he was fine. Logan didn't buy it. He wished there was something he could do, but he was just a mutant with a great metabolism and claws. What could he do when they were all losing hope and in need of strength? Then he remembered. That flask. Logan reached for the flask which hung at his hip. Elrohir had said that this was for those times when he was absolutely desperate. He considered this one of those times.

"I'm not sure what this does," he said, showing the hobbits the silver flask, "but I think it might help. Elrohir said it would."

"Elrohir said what would help?" said Aragorn, coming up from behind Logan. He, too, was worried about the hobbits, especially Frodo. That wound from the morgûl blade was taxing enough.

"This," said Logan, showing the flask to Aragorn. "It's some sort of elven energy drink or something rather. 'Mee-ray-far', I think it was."

"You mean 'miruvor'?" said the ranger.

"Yeah, that. It sounded like musical notes when Legolas said it." Logan handed the flask to Aragorn. "You think we're desperate enough to use this?"

"This is a great gift," said Aragorn, staring at the flask in his hand. His foster father must have foreseen this. Why else would he send miruvor with Logan? He was extremely grateful that Logan had taken Elrohir's advice seriously and not drunken all the contents as he would have done with any common liquor. "And, yes, I think we should use it; we shall have need of warmth and strength, and Legolas and Gimli have not yet succeeded in determining which race is better at starting fires."

"Of course the elves are better!" called Legolas.

"I say the dwarves!" said Gimli. "It just happens so that neither elves nor dwarves are good enough to start a fire under such dire circumstances."

"Well, the wood is wet," agreed Legolas.

"If we had any liquor, I could probably use it to help," said Gimli, "but we do not. So, I suppose we shall both have to concede defeat."

"As much as I hate to say this, I agree with you, Master Dwarf," said Legolas. He turned to Gandalf. The old wizard was peering into the swirling white mass before him with narrowed eyes and a furrowed brow. Snowflakes and ice clung to his clothing, beard, hair and eyebrows, making him look as if he was the White Wizard instead of simply the grey. His shoulders were bent in exhaustion, and he was leaning heavily on his staff as if it was the only thing that was keeping him standing. "Mithrandir?" said Legolas, catching Gandalf's attention.

"Yes?" said the wizard, glancing at the elf.

"We need help," said Legolas, indicating the pile of wet wood.

"Oh no, Thranduilion, do not think that I can be coerced into this," said Gandalf.

"We need the fire, Gandalf," said Gimli. "Logan spoke the truth; we are all going to die of cold if we do not have a fire."

"And if the morta—_we _all die of cold, the quest will fail," said Legolas. "Please, Mithrandir; I know this might give our position away, but what use is secrecy when we are buried and frozen under a foot of snow?"

Gandalf raised an eyebrow. This was a rare occasion indeed, and together, they were very persuasive. If only they could see how similar they were to one another and that they were a force to contend with when they worked together. He sighed as he went over to the neatly arranged pile of wood. "You know, this will write 'Gandalf is here' so clearly that Saruman will be able to see it from Orthanc," he said.

Logan was not quite sure what Gandalf was going to do with that piece of wood, and then he reminded himself that Gandalf was a wizard, like that Harry Potter boy, and if eleven-year-old Harry Potter could make fire —or was that Harry Potter's eleven-year-old friend?— then it was quite possible that Gandalf could make fire out of nothing. Then again, Harry Potter was fictional.

The wizard pointed his staff at the wood pile and then muttered a few indecipherable words. Flames shot out from the end of the staff and set the —soaked— wood ablaze. Gimli almost leapt back in surprise, but he recovered quickly enough. "Do not smother it," he told Legolas.

"I know that, Master Dwarf," said the elf. "I am old enough to be your great-grandfather's great-grandfather."

"I doubt that," said Gimli. "You look young enough to be...Lord Boromir's younger brother."

"Come now, Master Gimli," said Boromir. "I am not that old. At least, not old enough to be an elf's older brother."

"You're forty, Boromir," said Logan. "That's kinda old-ish."

"Please, Logan," said the Gondorian. "If I am old, then what are you?"

"The Wolverine," said Logan. As far as he was concerned, that was the end of that. Now, if only he had some marshmallows to roast over the fire. Ah well, since he was out in the wild, he really couldn't afford to be so picky, and he doubted they had marshmallows in Middle Earth anyway.

* * *

Boromir threw the last piece of wood to the dying flames. The storm continued to swirl and howl and whistle around them, creating a cacophonic symphony. The hobbits were asleep, huddled together for warmth against the sleeping Bill. Logan was nodding at a steady rate, indicating that he was probably not all that lucid either, and would probably attempt to stab someone if anybody tried to wake him up. The man from Gondor gathered his fur-lined cloak around himself, crossed his legs and simply stared at the fire.

He could hear its voice at the back of his mind, whispering sweetly seductively like the voice of a lover. It was so soft, and the words so convincing that it was hard to believe that it could be the voice of the Dark Lord, or something like that. He would not admit it to anyone, but it was rather hard to understand how a ring could have a will of its own, even if it was the One Ring. Besides, Boromir had never given much thought to all these strange things; he only fought with steel—things which he could see. Lore and wizardry were not his strengths. The voice continued to cajole and whisper. He knew he should pay it no heed; it would only lead him astray. But it was difficult, so difficult to do the right thing.

Sitting on the other side of the fire was Aragorn. It was hard to believe that the quiet stoic ranger with a wicked sense of humour was the heir to the Gondorian throne. In fact, Gondor had been without a king for so long that the thought of the throne being empty for not much longer was strange in itself. He could not imagine Aragorn sitting on that high seat of stone, or anyone else, for that matter, no matter how kingly he might appear. And it was hard to accept. Had not his house kept Gondor safe for centuries while the kings had gone into exile? The Stewards were the rightful rulers of Gondor now. They had ruled Gondor for so long that it was theirs; they deserved to be Gondor's masters. Isildur's heirs had no claim to the throne anymore. It was not that he had any disdain for Aragorn; in fact, he admired the man and was glad to have him as a comrade, but that did not mean he was about to hand over his country to him with both hands.

Aragorn seemed to be unaware of his fellow Man's attitude, and if he did, he gave no indication of it. He was playing absently with a ring on his finger. The Ring of Barahir. His head was bowed in thought, and the curtain of dark hair obscured his face. Behind him, Legolas, Gandalf and Gimli were speaking in fierce whispers. The wind made it hard for Boromir to hear much of the conversation, and he supposed that those three meant for the wind to veil their words. He thought heard something about 'Moria', though. Surely they were not contemplating going through those dreaded mines? Who knew what awaited them there?

As the argument became more heated, Aragorn turned and murmured something to Gandalf. The wizard nodded, and then made some motions with his hands, indicating both Gimli and Legolas. The elf looked decidedly unhappy about something, and the dwarf looked just as unhappy with the elf.

At that point, Logan must have heard something, because he began to stir. "Oh, gawd," he said in that accent of his. It took quite a bit of getting used to, but at least one would never mistake him for anyone else. He rubbed his neck and then turned his head around twice, making a clicking sound each time in his neck as he did so. "Bad sleepin' position, this," he said. "And the fire's gone out."

"What did you expect, Logan?" asked Boromir, glad to have someone to talk to. Logan's rambling took his mind off the voice at the back of his mind, making it a little easier to do the right thing.

"Well, hot coffee, for starters, or tea at least, followed by a good hearty breakfast of fried bacon, sausages, eggs, tomatoes, and hotcakes with butter and maple syrup—just kidding, Boromir—I mean, just joking. I know we don't have any of those things, and I'm not sure you even know what maple syrup is."

"You are right," said Boromir. "What is maple syrup?"

"That, pal, is the nectar of the gods," said Logan. "Not that I believe in gods, mind you, but if there were gods, then they would have maple syrup. It's sweet and golden and smells just divine—basically, it's tree-sap. Concentrated sugary tree-sap. Ah, if only you could come a visit my place sometime. I could whip up some hotcakes—all right, buy them from the local shop or somethin'— and introduce you to it. You haven't lived until you've tasted maple syrup. And glazed donuts." His stomach growled in agreement. "Damn! Now I've gone and made myself hungry. You don't suppose there's any food around here, do you?"

"There should be some jerky in my pack," said Boromir, rummaging through it. "You eat a lot, Logan." He found the jerky, still wrapped in oilcloth, and handed it to the hungry Wolverine, who, after thanking him, tore into the food.

"What can I say?" said Logan as he chewed. "Fast metabolism. Ah, forget 'metabolism'. I don't think I can explain it. I'm not a science teacher."

"Forgive me, Logan," said Boromir, "but I can hardly imagine you as a teacher at all, no matter what subject you might happen to teach."

"Then what can you imagine me as?" asked Logan. He'd already eaten half of the jerky. Thinking that it would be a good idea to conserve food, he rewrapped the other half and returned it to Boromir.

"Do you even need to ask? You are a soldier. That was the impression I got when I first laid eyes on you."

"Really? Because the first time you saw me, you pulled out your sword. I'm pretty sure you thought I was a murderer or something like that."

"Or simply a man with claws who looked as if he was going to tear me into a thousand pieces and feed me to the dogs."

* * *

True to his word, Gandalf woke the hobbits at dawn, although Logan could see no sign of the sun. They looked a little better this morning, having slept soundly for most of the night. Aragorn took out the stopper from the Logan's silver flask, and then passed it around, telling everyone to take one sip. "And I mean a sip," said the ranger. "No gulps; this is not beer."

"Hey, isn't this the same stuff that Goldilocks gave us when we were running from the nasty ghouls?"

"Yes, it is," said Aragorn. He took the flask back from the last person—Gandalf— and replaced the stopper. "There is enough left for all of us, but we should not use it unless we have no other choice."

"I feel warmer," said Pippin. "If only I could have a mushroom omelette; then I would feel really good. Just joking, Gandalf. I know there are neither eggs nor mushrooms to be found here. I might be fond of my food, but I know when to not expect any."

"Good," said Gandalf, "because we will be eating as we march today, so I don't suppose you'll get much to eat."

If anything, the storm had worsened. Logan could barely see directly before him as he shoved snow out of the way. Maybe if he accidentally fell down the mountain, he would end up back in New York. Or he could end up as a mess of blood, tissue, bone and adamantium at the foot of the mountain. While New York wouldn't be too bad, he didn't want to leave Middle Earth now, despite the lack of donuts and maple syrup. He was part of this quest to save the world, and he would feel awfully guilty if he simply left his friends to deal with this all by themselves.

The only person in front of him was Legolas. Once again, the elf was walking on top of the snow. Logan noticed for the first time that he wasn't wearing heavy boots like the rest of them, but soft leather shoes. His feet left no prints on the snow. It was as if he was a ghost.

"This is going to take us a while," said Logan to no one in particular. "I don't know about the rest of you, but my arms are gettin' tired and this snow's only gettin' deeper."

"Gandalf can always go before us with a flame and burn a way through the snow," said Legolas, glancing back.

"I like that idea," said Logan.

"Or maybe Legolas can fly over the mountain and bring back the sun," retorted the wizard. "I may be a wizard, but I do not make miracles!"

"Damn it," muttered Logan. "What's the point of magic when it can't do anything big?"

"Logan, if we all relied on magic, we would be useless lumps of lard," said Aragorn.

"Hey, I'd never be a lump of lard. I'm the Wolverine!"

"How many times have we heard that, laddie?" called Gimli, causing everyone to laugh. "I'm beginning to think that is your answer to everything."

"It works well enough, since no one really seems to know what being the Wolverine entails," said Logan.

"Whatever it is, it seems to include annoying me," said Gandalf. There were more sniggers, and even the miserable and cold Frodo cracked a smile. The only one who did not seem to find it funny was Bill. Then again, he was only a pony.

Suddenly, the elf stopped in his tracks. A cliff? Or something else entirely? Then Logan heard it, above the wind. It was a voice; a rich, deep and malicious voice. From the muffled gasps behind him, he guessed he and Legolas weren't the only ones who could hear it.

"What is that?" he heard Boromir shout.

"Saruman!" replied Gandalf. He had barely finished pronouncing the last syllable when the snow clinging precariously to the rocks above them crumbled and came rushing down like a white army. The only thing Logan had time to do was look up, which turned out to be an extremely bad idea. The snow slammed into his face with full force. Everything turned black.

* * *

"_Logan. Logan!" _

"_Is he all right?"_

"_He had better be. He is always the one saying that he is indestructible!"_

"Almost_ indestructible."_

"_You are not helping things at all. Come on, Logan! Answer me!"_

Logan groaned. He had a headache; when did he get drunk? And why were there so many people? Couldn't a man wake from his hangover in peace? And why did he feel cold and wet? If someone thought it would be a good idea to try and make a Wolverine Popsicle, they would pay for it.

"He's waking," said a voice. It sounded very familiar. Where had he heard it before? Hands were probing him. He batted them away.

"Leave me 'lone," he mumbled. "Jeepers!"

"He sounds fine, Aragorn," said another voice. It was a nice musical voice, and he'd heard that one before too. Only, he was having trouble putting faces to the voices. He tried opening his eyes. His vision was blurry, and he felt as if he was looking at something underwater. He blinked a couple of times. Gradually, his sight was restored again, and he was staring at quite a few concerned faces. Then he remembered; the quest, the Ring thing, and the snow. So that was why he was so cold; he should have known.

"I am fine," said Logan, pushing himself up into a sitting position. "I am never not fine. I'm—"

"The Wolverine?" ventured Gimli.

"Exactly!" He brushed snow off his terribly tattered leather jacket, and then turned his neck a few times, causing the joints to click.

"Please, Logan, not that again," said Legolas.

"Deal with it, Your Highness," said the Wolverine. "I just got hit in the head by an avalanche."

"It was hardly an avalanche, Logan," said Gandalf. "There was not that much snow."

"It buried us all," argued Pippin. It was a miracle that he was able to speak at all. His teeth were chattering so much that he reminded Logan of one of those high-speed wind-up toys, not that Logan would ever share that comparison with anyone. There were some things that even the Wolverine knew not to say.

"And it knocked me out," added Logan. "I say that's pretty serious."

"Avalanche or not, it has shown us one thing," said Gandalf. "The mountains are a more dangerous route than I had thought, and therefore, we should make a decision."

"The Gap of Rohan is the best route," said Boromir. "It is flat terrain with relatively mild weather."

"But it takes us too close to Isengard, making it easy for Saruman to find us," reasoned Aragorn. "I suggest that we maintain our course through the mountains. We are almost halfway through them."

"That sounds dire," said Merry. His face was almost as white as the snow, and his lips had a tinge of blue to them. That was not a good sign.

"There is another path," said Gimli. "I say we go through the Mines of Moria."

"No, not the mines," said Legolas quickly.

"What is wrong with the mines?" demanded the dwarf. "My cousin Balin lives there, and I know he will give us a royal welcome. It is warm down there. There will be roast meat, and beer."

"Warmth, beer and meat; that sounds perfect!" said Logan.

"As pleasant as those things are, I do not think that we should base our decisions on them," said Boromir.

"The mines are also dark and deep beneath the mountains," said Legolas. "As Master Gimli has not heard from his cousin for thirty years, how can we be certain that he is there?"

"Where else could he be?" said Gimli. He turned to the wizard, who seemed troubled. "What say you, Gandalf?"

"The mines are dangerous," said the wizard. "And by that I mean I believe that they are more dangerous than the mountains or the Gap of Rohan."

"I do not relish the idea of travelling underground," said Boromir.

"I have been through Moria once," said Aragorn, "and I do not wish to do so again."

"Ah, but my cousin was not there then," said Gimli.

"Peace, Gimli," said Boromir. "I am certain that your cousin is a great and noble dwarf, just like all your kinsmen. However, I believe the little folk should also get a say in this. They are the ones who are suffering the most, and surely the Ringbearer's thoughts on this matter should be taken into consideration. It is his quest, after all. The rest of us are merely his companions."

All eyes turned to Frodo, who grimaced. Why him? He didn't know anything about any of those places. They all had their merits, and each of them had its risks. He didn't want to make the wrong decision and put his companions in danger. The hobbit shivered, and was once again reminded that hobbits were not suited to travelling in cold snowstorms on mountains so high that it was impossible to see the bottom. They were a ground-dwelling people. If they stayed up here any longer, they would freeze to death.

The Gap of Rohan sounded pleasant; at least, flat terrain did. He didn't want to clamber up and down rocks anymore, and it sounded much warmer. However, Saruman was watching, and to let the corrupted wizard take the Ring was one of the worst possible outcomes. The risk was too great. Anyway, flat terrain meant that they were open to attack, for they would have nowhere to hide.

That left Moria; nothing much was known about the mines, except that Gandalf and Aragorn didn't like them. However, the thought of roasted meat off the bone, warmth and beer was very tempting. And if Gimli's cousin was there, then he would help them, wouldn't he?

"I think we should go through the mines," said Frodo. "But I do not know enough to make a good decision, so perhaps I should not be the one choosing."

Gandalf sighed. He could see the appeal of Moria, from the hobbit's perspective. "That choice is as good as any," he said. "There will be perils wherever we go."

"Ah, cheer up," said Logan. "We're gonna get beer, Gandalf!"

"Were you not hit in the head only a few moments ago?" said the wizard. "Why are you so cheerful?"

* * *

The group began their descent down the mountain. It was not any less difficult than getting up, as Gandalf was adamantly refusing to double back, which made sense. No one really liked the route the wizard had chosen. At one point, it was easier to carry the hobbits than to let them walk. And then, just when they were certain that they were never going to get down the mountain, the snow thinned out, and instead of looking like a wall of ice, it began to get powdery.

"Now _this_ is snow," said Logan. "I remember building snowmen with this stuff."

"You build snow-people too?" said Aragorn.

"Sure," said Logan. "It's pretty much expected."

"I enjoyed building things out of snow," said Legolas. "In fact, I was quite good at snow sculptures when I was a youngster—that was a long time ago. Snow horses were my favourite."

"We never had the patience to build things out of snow, nor was there ever enough snow in the Shire to build anything big," said Merry. "I like snowballs."

"So do I," said Pippin. "We would have the biggest snowball fights, and everyone would join in and build fortresses and such. Then someone will imminently hit the Thain or someone almost as important by accident, and then we would all be ushered inside for a talking-to."

"I preferred stuffing snow down people's backs," said Frodo. "There was a lot less fuss involved, and very little chance for mistakes."

Now that the blizzard had stopped, and the slope had become much gentler, everyone's mood had improved. Gandalf even suggested stopping to rest for a day; no one disagreed. They chose a relatively sheltered spot with a few trees and enough dead wood on the ground to build a small fire. As Sam got out his pot and pan and began sorting through his ingredients, Pippin lazily moulded a handful of snow into a rough sphere and then, closing one eye, took aim and lobbed it at Merry. The ball of snow flew in a slow arc through the air. As Pippin had intended, it hit the back of Merry's head, shattered, and fell down the older hobbit's neck.

Merry whipped around to see a laughing Pippin. "All right, you Tookish ruffian!" said the Brandybuck. He bent down to gather his own snow and to form his own projectiles. "The war is on!"

One misaimed snowball hit Frodo, who could not let such an offence go unpunished. One wide hit led to another. Soon, most of the Fellowship was involved in the game. The only exceptions were Gandalf and Sam. The former declared himself too old to be involved in such frivolity, and was smoking his pipe in silence. The latter preferred cooking to the snowball fight; getting cold and wet was not his idea of a good time. It suited the others well enough. Snow flew everywhere, and laughter rang out.

* * *

The blizzard might have stopped, but the wind certainly had not. The wind howled around them as they sat around their small crackling fire, with their cloaks wrapped tightly about their shoulders. As for Logan, who didn't have a cloak, he simply used a blanket. "Y'know, this is the perfect atmosphere for ghost stories," he said, attempting to stir up conversation amongst his silent companions.

"Please, no ghost stories," said Pippin. "This is frightening enough as it is. I wish to sleep in peace tonight, should I ever fall asleep."

"It is kinda loud," said Logan, but he paid very little heed to the wind. It was just wind, and he could afford to tune it out, couldn't he? Then Legolas tapped him on the shoulder.

"Listen," said the elf quietly.

"I hear it, Legolas," said Logan. "And I'm sure everyone can hear the wind too."

"Listen harder then," said Legolas. "There is more than just the wind out there." There was so much authority in the elven prince's quiet voice that Logan found himself obeying him. And surely enough, there it was. It sounded like a dog, or a coyote. No, make that lots of coyotes. Wait, were there coyotes in Middle Earth, or did they have hyenas or wolves or some other dangerous wild canines?

"I'd say coyotes," said Logan to Legolas.

"If that is your word for wolves, then I would say you are correct," said Legolas. The others were all listening now, and fear was apparent in the hobbits' eyes. They were exhausted; they did not want to fight dangerous wild beasts. "We are surrounded by wolves from every direction, and they are not natural wolves."

"Wargs," said Aragorn, drawing his sword. There was a metallic ring as the blade scraped the inside of the scabbard.

"Form a circle with your backs facing the fire," said Gandalf. "The hobbits should be in the inner circle. Legolas, we will need your bow and arrows. Logan, do not leap at anything and break the formation. These creatures are dangerous."

"I'm the Wolverine!" protested Logan. "A wolverine can easily deal with wolves! It's been scientifically proven. And since I'm an unnatural Wolverine, I think a bunch of unnatural wolves shouldn't be a problem."

A pair of yellow eyes appeared in the darkness, and then another pair, and another, until they were surrounded by unnatural yellow orbs which reflected the light of their fire. Logan could smell the stench of these wolves. One of them, presumably the lead male, growled low down in its throat. Logan growled back, answering the challenge. He had taken a defensive position, with feet wide apart, shoulders squared, claws brandished, and ready to charge. His claws gleamed dully in the dim light. He heard wood bend as Legolas and Aragorn drew their bows and took aim. The smell of fear wafted towards him. Those poor hobbits. He even felt pity for Bill, who was snorting nervously and shifting from side to side.

"I think we should make for Moria now," said Boromir. "This place has lost its appeal."

"Not before I get a nice skin for a rug," said Logan.

"Honestly, Logan; warg rugs are not fashionable," said Legolas. "They have never been fashionable, and will never be fashionable."

"I don't want a warg rug," said Pippin. "I just don't want to become warg food."

"Then build up the fire!" shouted Gandalf to the hobbits. "That is your greatest defence!"

"Can't you burn something?" shouted Logan to the wizard. "Use your magic wand, staff...whatever!"

The warg-wolf things closed in on them, and then one of the bolder animals, most likely the alpha male, leapt at Logan with a snarl. Logan inadvertently took a step backwards. This was not a wolf! It looked more like a grizzly bear from the size of the thing! Then Logan's instincts took over. No matter how large the wolf-warg-whatever was, he, the Wolverine, was still the top predator, and he was not going to relinquish that title without a fight. He plunged his claws into the chest of the animal, just as the beasts claws raked through his sleeves and his flesh. Both of them roared in fury, and their roars mingled until it sounded as if they had become one.

Logan had no time to gloat over his enemy's death. He leapt, ignoring Gandalf's previous command about not doing just that, and vaulted onto the back of another of those great beasts. The animal tried to toss him off, but Logan clung on with one hand even as he drove his claws into the warg's neck. The animal howled in pain and then toppled onto its side, thus succeeding in throwing Logan to the ground. Another warg was about to bite his head off, but it ended up with Gimli's axe embedded in its skull. Legolas' arrows were flying so quickly that it seemed as if there was more than one archer. Aragorn, on the other hand, had abandoned archery. It had to be said that he was a better swordsman than archer. His blade was coated with the thick dark blood of the wargs. It was the same with Boromir. The two men fought back to back, almost in perfect coordination with one another.

However, no matter how many wargs they cut down, more seemed to replace them. At the rate they were going, they would be overwhelmed long before dawn came. Gandalf could not have that. He strode over to the fire and took up a burning brand. In the orange glow of the flames, he seemed to be surrounded by a halo of power. No more was he the old man who sat with a hunched back. To Logan, who only caught a glimpse of him before he was once again preoccupied with yet another warg, he seemed to be the embodiment of some Norse god.

The wizard threw the burning piece of wood high into the air, as if it was one of those flares which soldiers used, and then shouted something in a foreign tongue which the Wolverine had no hopes of deciphering. The flame turned white, and the light spread. The leafless branches of the trees caught fire at an unnatural pace. The wargs howled in agony as their flesh was consumed by the orange flames. Legolas shot one last arrow. The fletching caught fire as it brushed one of Gandalf's flames, and then it disappeared into the blaze like a falling comet.

By the time a grey morning dawned, all that was left of the scattered trees were charred, smoking ruins and powdery white ash. No trace of the wargs was left. All they could find were scattered arrows. Some of them only had the metal arrowheads left.

"Why can't you have some normal animals, like bears?" said Logan as he kicked at a severely burnt tree stump. It crumbled upon impact. "I don't really know what those things were, but I have a feeling they were more into killing than they were into eating."

* * *

**A/N: **I don't know why this chapter ended up being so long. Suffice to say the next one won't be as huge. I hope you enjoyed the chapter.


	16. A Great Black Pit

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize. I'm just borrowing them for the purposes of this tale.

_NB: This chapter contains both bookverse and movie-verse elements. I think I said it was bookverse AU sometime ago, but for this part, movie-verse is my preferred version. I have tried to mingle it with bookverse. Hopefully, it is not too jarring. _

**Darcy: **I was suddenly inspired by Jack Sparrow's constant proclamation that he was 'Captain Jack Sparrow' and that was why he could do anything.

**Violet: **Thanks for the suggestion. I'll see what I can do. My writing's pretty spontaneous, but I'm pretty sure the Fellowship will have time to talk. At least, once they're out of Moria.

_Thank you to all who reviewed. You have all been very supportive and helpful. _

**Chapter 16: A Great Black Pit**

Gandalf had said that they were near Moria. In Logan's world, 'near' implied a few minutes, maybe half an hour at the most. In Middle Earth, it apparently meant a day's journey. It was night again when they finally reached Moria, or rather, the walls of Moria. Gimli had gasped in awe at the sight of the towering grey cliffs. Try as he might, Logan could not see what was so different about these cliffs. They were still drab and grey and rocky and...well, they were cliffs.

The Fellowship made their way along the bottom of the walls until they came to a murky dark lake with stagnant water. The full moon gave them enough light to see clearly by, not that Logan needed to see the pool to be able to tell that it was there. The smell alone was enough. There was a perfect reflection of the moon on the surface of the still water. Only the slightest ripples, caused by the light wind, disturbed it. Apparently, the entrance to the mines were on the other side of the lake, and since there was no boat or raft to take them across, they had to travel along the shores; a rather large detour. At times, the strip of land between the lake and the cliffs were so narrow that they had to walk in single file. Every now and then, someone would slip on the loose shingle and almost fall into the water. Usually, it was Bill. Such ground was not suited to a pony's hard hooves. Eventually, they did make it to the other side, only to be faced with more grey rock.

"I don't see a door," said Logan, pointing out the obvious.

"Dwarf doors cannot be seen when they are closed, Master Logan," said Gimli.

"Well, that's handy," said Logan. "Kinda makes it hard for visitors to call on them, don't you think?"

"The entire purpose of hidden doors is so that those who do not know where they are cannot find them," said Gimli. "Not all visitors are friendly."

"Well, yeah, I know that one," said Logan as Gandalf began exploring the grainy grey surface of the rock wall with one gnarled hand. "But unwelcome visitors generally don't use doors." He glanced at the wall of rock again. "Although, I can't see how anyone can get into this thing other than through a door, assuming that these are the wall of the mines and not just another cliff."

"Logan, I have been here before," said Gandalf, not even bothering to hide the exasperation in his voice. "I would think I know where we are."

"But where's the door?" asked Logan.

"Logan, can I please have a moment of peace and quiet to think?" demanded Gandalf. "If you do not stop, I will feel obliged to turn you into a six year old girl."

"You can't do that!" said Logan.

"You do not want to test that theory," said Aragorn. "Personally, I find the prospect of being a six year old girl rather depressing."

"I enjoyed being a six year old boy," mused Boromir. "Mind you, I was a boy and my father's favourite child. He indulged me somewhat back then. The girls I knew of led a dull existence, learning how to sit properly and such. Personally, I would prefer it if they were educated in how to hold a proper conversation. One can only talk about the weather for so long, and I know nothing of the latest fashions."

"You're having women problems?" asked Logan. "Wait, that didn't come out right."

"If you mean that I am having problems with my need to find a bride, then you are correct," said Boromir. "It is my duty to marry and have an heir, but I would prefer to be married to someone who would not put me to sleep simply by talking." He turned to Aragorn. "You are a lucky man, to have found a lady such as the daughter of Elrond."

"Indeed, I consider myself extremely fortunate," said Aragorn with a small smile.

"Sam has Rosie," piped up Pippin. "I think he's lucky too. She's a pretty hobbit lass and a good cook.

"Oh, Mister Pippin!" said a rather flustered Sam. "Nothin's been confirmed yet. I just like her, that's all."

"Yes, I'm sure that's all, Sam," said Merry, winking at the gardener. "What about you, Logan? You're handsome enough, for a Man. Any lass in your life?"

It had been funny enough to talk about the love lives —or the lack thereof— of his companions, but now that the question was directed at him, Logan baulked. He didn't want to relive that pain again. Once had been quite enough, although he had the nagging feeling that it wasn't the first time he had lost a woman he had loved. Perhaps the amnesia was a gift, after all.

"Didn't anyone tell you that it's not polite to pry into other people's private business, Merry?" asked Frodo, giving his cousin a stern look.

"I guess," said Merry. "Sometimes, it is hard to hold back my curiosity. I hope you weren't offended, Logan."

Logan nodded, accepting the apology in silence. He would not think about that night; he would not...he would not...

"Behold, the doors of Moria!" said Gandalf, breaking through the Wolverine's sombre thoughts. Where there had been nothing but dark stone, there was now the outline of an arch; the shining outline of an arch.

"Where the hell did that come from?" asked Logan, staring at the arch.

"It was covered by dust, laddie," said Gimli. "Did I not tell you that dwarf doors cannot be seen when they are closed?"

"We can see them now, and they're still closed," pointed out Logan. "Why is it glowing anyway?"

"The doors have been marked out by Ithildin," explained Gandalf. "It only reflects starlight and moonlight."

"So it's some magical substance which makes no scientific sense," said Logan. "I should have expected that." He had not taken his eyes off the arch, for it was quite beautiful. There were runes at the very top, but he ignored them as they made no sense to him. What intrigued him were the trees. Now, Logan had very little fondness for trees, but these two engraved onto the Doors of Moria were delicate and ethereal, as if they belonged in another world which death could not touch. Their curling branches seemed to move, even if they were only stone engravings. Maybe he was just tired.

"What do those runes say?" asked Pippin.

"Those, young Peregrin, are the keys to the door," said Gandalf, smiling at the inquisitive young hobbit. "They say, 'The Doors of Durin, Lord of Moria: Speak, friend, and enter'."

"I guess we're supposed to shout and someone will open the door for us," said Logan with a shrug.

"Oh no," said Gimli. "We dwarves are more sophisticated than that. There is a password, and if we are friends, we are supposed to know it."

"Do you know it?" asked Logan.

"Unfortunately, no," said Gimli. "It is not neighbourhood gossip, to be passed from one household to another."

"Oh. I thought it would just be general knowledge to dwarves."

Gandalf began to speak in a melodic flowing foreign language which Logan assumed was the language of the elves. Then again, it could be a wizard language. It was hard to tell between one foreign language and another. The Doors of Moria did not seem to recognize the words either, for they remained firmly closed. Not discouraged by this lack of initial success, Gandalf tried another phrase. And another.

"Open, sesame!" said Logan.

"Open, _sesame_?" said Aragorn. "Why 'sesame'? It's a door."

"It worked in this other story where there was a magic door," said Logan. "I thought it was worth a try."

"Now that it hasn't worked, are you going to try 'poppy seed' next?" asked the ranger.

"I say 'barley'," said Pippin. "Gimli says that dwarves are fond of good beer, and barley makes very good beer."

"Millet," supplied Merry.

"Aniseed," said Sam quietly.

"Wheat," said Frodo. "Or maybe oats."

"Why would Durin use a seed for his password?" demanded Gimli. "That is beyond ridiculous!"

"It's inconspicuous," said Boromir.

"Although now that you think about it, it is rather ridiculous," said Merry. "I suppose it's a riddle, this password. Once you figure it out, it seems so obvious that you wonder if you're a bit dim not to have thought of it sooner."

* * *

The night trickled past slowly. Gandalf continued to speak in foreign tongues, but the door remained closed. Sometime during the long vigil, Logan had drifted off into a light sleep. Oh, he still heard the voices of his companions as they conversed in hushed whispers, but they were simply sounds which meant nothing to him. At times, a few words would filter through and mingle with his dreams. It made for a few scenarios which could only be called odd. He woke when a splash interrupted the constant low murmur of words.

"How I despise this ghastly pool," said Boromir, throwing another stone into the water. Ripples radiated out. It seemed that a night long vigil had worn down his patience.

"It would not be wise to disturb the water," said Aragorn quietly. The ranger sat on a rock with his elbows resting on his knees. He was staring at the shingle on the ground as if he was studying it. Bill the pony was dozing beside him. Sometime earlier, he and Sam had removed the pony's tack. Bill could not follow them into the mines. It was a better idea to let him go where he pleased. So far, he seemed happy enough to stay where his beloved Sam was. Besides, he could also smell an old carrot in the ranger's pocket. "We do not know what lurks in its depths."

"Amoeba," said Logan. "And maybe a couple of catfish; they tend to like to live in places like this. It's a bit too small to hold much else, unless you've got your own version of the Loch Ness Monster."

"If there are only a couple of catfish lurking at the bottom, then I would not worry at all," said Aragorn. "In fact, I would be in favour of making a fishing rod and trying my luck. However, I fear there might be more than catfish down there."

"Like what?" asked Logan, staring at the lake and frowning. It looked calm enough. The water's lack of clarity, combined with the dark, meant that he couldn't see anything. The only smell was that of stagnant water, which could only be expected. Wait...did he hear something? It sounded as if there was something moving in the water. Then again, maybe it was just a catfish. "You don't think there's a kraken or something like that, right, coz that's just ridiculous. Giant squid live in the sea. Even I know that."

"Even so, I would rather not risk it," said Aragorn, "not that I understand what a 'kray-kin' is."

Logan was about to explain that a kraken was just a giant squid when Gandalf suddenly laughed. "Oh, I have it now," he said. The wizard took a breath, and said something which sounded suspiciously like 'melon' to the Wolverine.

"Merry, of all people, was on the right track!" said the wizard as the doors opened slowly to reveal a dark maw, groaning as stone grated against stone. A draught of stale warm air wafted out. It smelled as if something had died in there. Probably a rat or something. At least, Logan hoped it was a rat.

"What do you mean, 'of all people'?" demanded Merry in mock annoyance, but the hobbit was grinning too. Logan still didn't understand how Merry had been in the right direction.

"So...instead of a seed, it was a fruit?" said Logan.

"I have to admit you are a very surprising man, Logan," said Boromir. "How did you arrive at that conclusion?"

"Hey, that's no big deal," said Logan. "Although I'm probably completely off again, aren't I?"

"If by 'off', you mean that you are incorrect, then yes," said Legolas. "The word 'mellon', despite the similarity to the word 'melon', is actually not a fruit, but the elvish word for 'friend'." The elf stood at the entrance of the mines, his faint glow more obvious now. Logan wanted to say something about a walking torch, but he figured that no one but him would appreciate the joke. Probably best to keep it to himself; everyone seemed unusually tense, apart from Gimli, who had started describing the mines to everyone even though they were already standing at the entrance and would probably get to see it for themselves soon. Legolas, of all people, seemed to be the most hesitant. Wait. Logan remembered now. The elf had something against caves, or maybe just dark enclosed underground spaces in general. He would have to ask Legolas about it sometime. It just seemed so weird that someone as old as him would be afraid of such a trifling thing as the dark.

"Hey, we're gonna need a light of some sort," he said to no one in particular as he followed the others into the mines. He wrinkled his nose. There was no doubt about it; something definitely had died in here. From the scent of it, it had happened a long time ago. Logan knew what dead bodies smelled like. He'd encountered too many before, and even if he didn't remember when or where exactly he had encountered those bodies in their various states of decomposition, it was hard to forget the smell.

"Do not fret, Master Logan," called Gandalf. "There will be light." As the wizard spoke, the end of his staff began to glow; actually, it was the stone which he had placed on the end of his staff which had begun to glow, but still, Logan was not used to seeing stones glowing. Then again, he'd never seen a glowing elf before either, or any elves or wizards or hobbits at all, for that matter. His train of thought would have gone down that road if Gandalf's light had not revealed something which was much less pleasant.

Bones. The floor of the mines was littered with bones which looked as if they had not been disturbed for a while. Actually, scratch that; these bones were pretty disturbed. There were notches, and fractures, and arrows sticking in the ribcages of those skeletons which were still relatively intact enough to have a ribcage. People had died in here; not just people, but dwarves, from the size of those skeletons and the design of their weapons. Perhaps this was the reason why Gimli's cousin had not contacted him for thirty years.

"Mahal, no!" cried Gimli as the realization first dawned and then settled. He knelt down by the nearest skeleton, staring at the skull's bony planes and empty eye sockets, as if he was trying to find some resemblance to the dwarf that this had once been. Logan remained silent. 'Sorry' was too weak a word. What could he say to someone who had lost someone he loved? 'Sorry' had not been enough for him when Xavier had died. It had definitely not been enough when Jean had died. He hadn't wanted meaningless expressions of sympathy. He had wanted to destroy someone, or something, namely that which had caused so much pain and grief. Revenge was therapeutic. Now, if only they had some perpetrators to hunt down...

"This is the work of goblins," said Legolas as he inspected a broken arrow. He threw it down in disgust, as if it would contaminate him.

"What now?" asked Logan quietly, but everyone heard him well enough. No one else was talking.

"The Gap of Rohan seems to be our only choice," said Boromir. He had won, and yet, there was no joy in this victory; not even the slightest smattering of satisfaction. He had not wanted to be proven correct like this.

"I agree," said Legolas. He turned, but did not make for the entrance. Instead, he placed his hand over his heart and bowed his head, murmuring something in elvish. At least, Logan assumed it was elvish. Maybe it was a prayer of some sort. Whatever it was, it sounded suitably sombre, and quite melodic and beautiful in its own melancholic way.

Logan's ears twitched. Something was definitely moving in the water, and it was coming towards them. He glanced back. Frodo and the other hobbits were already at the entrance, waiting for them. "You might wanna step ba—" the Wolverine began, but he never got to finish his sentence. Something shot of the water and then attempted to drag Frodo down into the lake. Logan's claws erupted from between his knuckles, and he was about to leap to Frodo's rescue, but Sam beat him to it. Despite appearances, the little hobbit could be very agile and strong, especially when there was the slightest chance that Frodo was in danger. The gardener hacked at the _thing_ wrapped around Frodo's ankle with his short sword. Whatever it was, it didn't seem to like the assault, and it withdrew. Merry and Pippin were about to pull Frodo into the relative safety of the mines when what seemed like twenty giant snakes burst out of the water. This time, Logan was a little more prepared, but twenty was too great a number. He only had six claws. Just as well he had more than six friends, and they were all coming out to help. Well, five of them were coming out to help. All the other hobbits were already out here, trying their very best to sever those tentacles with their tiny swords. They weren't having too much success.

Logan's claws sliced through the rubbery skin of one tentacle. He didn't manage to sever the entire tentacle, but most of it did end up dangling limply from the stump, hanging on only by a flap of skin. The problem was that this was not the tentacle which was holding Frodo high above the water. It was the tentacle that was attempting to make Logan its target. Whatever this thing was, and Logan highly suspected that it was something like a kraken, it had a big appetite.

Boromir and Aragorn looked as if they were cutting through tentacles almost effortlessly. One swing with a long sword brought those things tumbling down. It was as if they were felling trees instead of fighting with a giant squid-thing which lived in a pond that was too small for it. Moving trees, which wanted to kill them.

Aragorn was moving in on the tentacle which had Frodo. He was already half-immersed in the pool. The splashing water had plastered his dark hair flat against his head and his loose clothes against his body. The ranger was not as lean as he seemed to be when he was dry. The contours of his muscles were easily seen now. He was rather fit for an eighty-seven year old man. With a grunt, Aragorn struck out with his sword. The perfect horizontal blow cut through the tentacle holding Frodo with little resistance. The hobbit was released. He fell. As if everything had been choreographed, Boromir was there to catch him. Logan was simply glad that it was Boromir who caught Frodo, and not him. Hell, he could have easily skewered that hobbit on his claws accidentally.

Logan let loose a stream of profanities as one tentacle made a grab for him. He ducked, but as he did so, his foot slipped on the slime at the bottom and he fell into the water. It was not deep —it came up to his thighs when he was standing— but with all the thrashing tentacles surrounding him, it was rather hard to get up. The Wolverine might be many things, but he did not have gills.

A hand grasped him by the back of his jacket and hauled him out. "Now is not the time to have a bath, Master Logan," said Legolas. The elf was deceptively strong. Together, they raced for the entrance of the mines. The kraken-like-thing pursued them. The fact that it was dragging itself along the rocky bottom of the pool did not seem to bother it at all. Legolas and Logan threw themselves into the mines just as the creature, having realized that it was, in fact, not a land animal, slammed the doors behind them, leaving them all in the dark.

"I'd say something about normal animals," said Logan, "but I think you know what I'm thinking already."

"I definitely do," said Boromir. He preferred 'normal' animals too. Even wargs were better than things with tentacles which leapt out at men and hobbits from still murky pools.

"Normal animals or not, that does not change the fact that we have no choice but to pass through Moria," said Gandalf with a heavy sigh. "Be alert. There are older evils in the deep than orcs and wolves." The crystal at the top of his staff began to glow again, revealing a miserable and wet Fellowship. Even Legolas was looking less than pristine. He was also so white that he could have easily made a convincing vampire. A really _pretty_ vampire, but still, a vampire. Speaking of which, did Middle Earth have any vampires? Gandalf had said that there were older evils. That thought almost made Logan shudder. He wasn't sure if his mutation worked against undead blood-sucking creatures.

He stripped off his wet jacket. The leather was chafing against his skin, and for all his regenerating powers, it still irritated him. Besides, it was warm in here, which was probably the only good thing about it.

* * *

For Logan, the word 'mines' conjured up images of narrow tunnels, old rails, creaking wooden carts and wooden supports. Moria was nothing like that. After a couple of tunnels in the beginning, it turned into a series of vast chambers filled with echoes, and narrow bridges suspended in the emptiness. Below them was one dark bottomless chasm. The paths were situated haphazardly, winding like the rails of a rollercoaster. If this had been a rollercoaster, then it would have been a hell of a ride. Most of them ended in sharp drops, as the rest of the bridge had probably crumbled.

How old was this place? Logan didn't know. He felt as if he was delving into some mystery of the world's past, like Atlantis. Of course, Atlantis was just a myth, unlike this place. Then again, if a world where wizards and elves and hobbits and men formed a suicidal group to go on a mission to save the world, then why couldn't Atlantis exist? This line of thought, combined with the fact that there was a bottomless pit beneath him, made Logan feel dizzy. The only light came from Gandalf's staff and an old torch which Boromir had found. It gave off the foulest smoke, but at least it also gave off light, albeit a flickering sickly orange light. Needless to say, no one had volunteered to help Boromir to carry the torch, and he had quietly relegated himself to the rear so that the odour of the smoke would not offend them as much. He really was an old-fashioned gentlemen; the sort which girls sighed over. Well, at least that was Logan's guess. He didn't know very much about women, despite the fact that he had been with a great many.

Every now and then, they would come across another group of skeletons. Not all of them were dwarves. Some of those creatures had incredibly deformed skulls. Logan was pretty sure that they were goblins. Had been goblins, at least. Surprisingly, there were not very many rats. One would expect them to live in dark warm underground places like this, foraging for food. In fact, there was an astounding lack of life-forms of any kind. The smell of decay was everywhere. Logan simply could not ignore it. He would be glad to get out of this place, even if it meant going back out into the cold. At least there was fresh air out there. However, Gandalf had said that it would take them four days to journey through Moria, if they did not get lost. Four days in a place full of winding paths, precarious narrow bridges and a great black pit which was just waiting to swallow them up was a very long time.

In the dark, there was no indication of night and day. Gandalf tried to maintain some sense of normalcy by estimating the time and letting them rest when he thought it was dark outside as well as inside. There was no wood for lighting fires, but they had enough jerky with them. First watch was usually claimed by Pippin, who tended to be very grumpy when he was woken up from heavy sleep.

Legolas was perpetually keeping watch. The elf seemed to be rather out of sorts in this place, even more so than everyone else. Every now and then, Logan would glimpse the elf's bright eyes in the dim light. He always seemed to be searching for something.

* * *

Logan lost count of the days. It was very easy to do that when one was more inclined to count the seconds, or the number of steps which one had to climb up to get to yet another broken bridge or the occasional tunnel —usually blocked off— and then had to climb back down again. Apparently, things had changed a bit since Gandalf had last been here. It was quite an understatement, Logan thought, especially since they seemed to be making an awful lot of wrong turns. Maybe he was just sick of the smell of decomposition and was being unfair to Gandalf. However, Logan wasn't in the mood to be reasonable.

Apart from the dark and the smell of rotten meat, Moria was rather dreary. After a while, all the bridges and tunnels and steps began to look the same. Evidently, they were different to Gandalf, for the old wizard insisted that they were not lost, merely taking some rather long detours because of changes to the layout of the mines. Logan suspected that Gandalf was trying to make the hobbits, especially Frodo, feel better. Had there ever been a smaller 'saviour of the world'? Even Baby Jesus grew up to be a man.

They came to the top of a series of winding staircases with no rails. Clearly, safety had not been the foremost concern of whoever had built them. Gandalf stood, looking in all directions. His brow was furrowed. "I do not remember this place," he murmured.

"Yep, we're lost," said Logan with a sigh. At least his suspicions were now confirmed, although he felt very little satisfaction about it. He had actually hoped that Gandalf would disprove his theories. It wasn't often that the Wolverine would rather be proved wrong, but this was one of those times. He sat down on the steps. The others followed his example. They knew they were not going anywhere soon; not until Gandalf could tell them where they were, at any rate.

He sniffed. At least the air smelled better here; less stale. Wait...Logan began to sniff in earnest, wrinkling his nose.

"What is it, Logan?" asked Boromir. "What do you smell?" The rest of the Fellowship had stopped what they were doing to watch him, and then some of them began sniffing too when he did not answer. Realization dawned on Gandalf's face, and the old wizard grinned.

"Gentlemen, I think I might just have solved our problem," said Logan.

"So you were speaking the truth," said Legolas. For the first time in many days, the elf smiled. "You really can smell your way out of a cave."

* * *

With Logan and Gandalf leading the way, and Boromir and Aragorn bringing up the rear, the Fellowship filed into a small round room, which was once again, littered with bodies. This was even worse than being lost on a long winding staircase, for Gimli had spotted an axe which he recognized as being that of one of his father's friends.

There was a hole in the middle of the room, ringed with stones. Presumably, that had once been a well. It was empty now, and that had been the source of the fresh air. "Damn it!" said Logan, striking the wall with a fist. There was a metallic clang, but otherwise, nothing happened. The stones of Moria were Wolverine-resistant.

"You tried your best, Logan," said Aragorn, coming up behind him. "Do not be so harsh on yourself."

"I gave everyone this false hope that we might be getting out of here sometime soon," said Logan. "Now everyone's more depressed. God, this is just—" More profanities followed, most of which made Aragorn wince. This was not language which a teacher was supposed to use. He sincerely hoped that Logan was not like that in front of his pupils.

"You might not have found a way out," said Merry, reaching up to pat Logan on the arm, "but you've found a way down."

"Which might be the way out, but I don't really want to test it," said Pippin. He glanced at the gaping hole in the middle of the room and then moved a few steps closer to the wall.

"Well, I'm not volunteering to test the exit shaft," said Logan. "I don't like heights either, especially not flying."

"You can't fly, Logan," said Merry. "Can you?"

"I can't, but in my place, they make machines that can. Please don't ask me about them. I don't know anything about them, apart from the fact that they can fly."

"Flying machines," said Pippin, shaking his head. "What is wrong with staying on the ground? You Big Folk can be so ridiculous sometimes."

* * *

**A/N: **I hope you enjoyed that. I've been really busy this week, so if there are any mistakes, I apologize in advance. If you find them, please do tell me, and I'll fix them.


	17. In the Realm of Fantasy

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize; I'm just borrowing them for the purposes of this tale.

**Violet: **I definitely will continue writing. :)

**Chapter 17: In the Realm of Fantasyf**

Pippin really wished that they could have chosen a different place to spend the night. Of all places, Gandalf had decided to go for the small room with a big hole in the middle of the floor and skeletons everywhere. No wonder the other hobbits in the Shire had mistrusted the wizard. Pippin was beginning to doubt Gandalf's judgement. He turned his back to the old well to try and put it out of his mind. It would be so easy just to fall down it accidentally in his sleep. Pippin inched closer to the wall, except not too close, as there was a skeleton leaning nearby. Old bones did not make very good companions, even if they had once belonged to Gimli's kin.

Turning his back to the wall did not seem to improve the way Pippin felt. In fact, he felt even more exposed. Something could come out of that well and attack him from behind and he would be none the wiser. 'Don't be silly,' he told himself. 'People are keeping watch.' He could hear his companions' snores. Logan, who was sleeping nearby, was grunting in his sleep and muttering something which the hobbit guessed should not be said in civilized company. Perhaps that bad language was part of being a soldier. Pippin knew very little about soldiers, except that all the soldiers he knew used bad language sometimes, even when they were polite most of the time.

He rolled over again. It was no use. The ground was too hard, and he simply couldn't sleep with a bottomless black pit in the same room with him. If he knew how deep it was, perhaps he would feel just a little bit better. After all, if he did fall, at least he would know when he would stop falling. Pippin groped around for a stone. They were easy enough to find. The entire floor was littered with stones. The main thing was not grabbing a bone by mistake. That would be bad, and he didn't want to show the dead any unintentional disrespect.

The hobbit crawled out from beneath his blanket. It was Gimli's turn to keep watch. Apparently, Legolas had finally consented to rest for one night. The dwarf was staring morosely into the dark. Poor Gimli. Pippin couldn't imagine losing most of his family and not knowing that he'd lost them until thirty years later. He wanted to say something to the dwarf, but nothing seemed appropriate. The hobbit shook his head. Perhaps he should ask Frodo later, when they were out of this place. The young Took crept up to the edge of the well and stared down into the blackness. It really was very deep. Staying on his hands and knees, so that there would be a very _very_ small chance that he would overbalance and fall, he dropped the stone into the well and then counted. One. Two. Three... He counted up to 'thirteen' before he finally heard a soft sound of the stone hitting something. Oh dear; now he felt even worse. If a hobbit or a Man fell down that well, he would end up in an awful mess at the bottom.

"What was 'at?" he heard Logan say.

"I heard it too," said Legolas. Pippin grimaced.

'Peregrin Took, you fool,' he scolded himself. 'Why did you have to go and do that? You've woken everyone, and who knows what else you might have woken?'

"Oh, Pippin," said Frodo, catching the look on his cousin's face. "You did not..."

"I kind of did, Frodo," said the youngest hobbit, unintentionally adopting Logan's way of speech. "Uh...I just wanted to know how deep it was, because it was making me feel uncomfortable." That sounded like a very bad excuse, especially since knowing the well's depth did not make him feel any better. "I'm sorry."

"This is not a hobbit walking party!" said Gandalf in exasperation. "How many times to I have to reiterate that point?"

"I promise I won't do it again," said Pippin. "I'm sorry."

"Not nearly sorry enough," said the wizard sternly.

"Whoa, hey," said Logan. "So he dropped a rock down the well. Big deal. People drop coins down wells in my place. It's not like rocks don't fall down every now and then. It's probably a normal occurrence in this place." As soon as he finished speaking, he stiffened. That was definitely not a natural sound. Maybe Pippin's rock had not been that inconsequential after all.

"What is _that_?" asked Sam. The little gardener's hand flew to the hilt of his sword, and he inched closer to his master. The Fellowship fell silent, listening to this new sound. _Tom tap. Tom tap. _

"It sounds like..." began Legolas. The elf was frowning.

"A hammer," finished Gimli. "It doesn't just sound like a hammer. It _is_ the sound of a hammer, or I've never heard a hammer in my entire life."

"I do not like the sound of that," said Merry. "It's got nothing to do with Pippin's stone, has it?"

"I do not know," said Gandalf. "And I do not care to find out."

"Neither do I," said Boromir. "Perhaps we should leave now, before whoever is wielding the hammer decides to come up here and investigate falling rocks."

"I think that is a very good idea," said Aragorn.

"Is saying 'sorry' three times a bit too much?" asked Pippin.

"Yes," said Gandalf. "If you really want to atone for what you did, Peregrin Took, you may take the next watch, once we find a new place to rest, and I doubt we will be doing much resting tonight."

* * *

Having left the guard chamber, the Fellowship followed Gandalf in a single file back to where they had been before Logan's nose had led them astray. The wizard had thought that it would be better to try and find their way from there. Logan was really beginning to hate this place. Boromir had been right to call it a tomb. He could smell death and decay everywhere, and the only source of fresh air had proven to be another way down to death, even if it did lead out of Moria, and Logan was pretty sure it didn't. They were already underground; a way down could not possibly equate to a way out.

"Now what?" muttered Logan as they came back to where they had been the night before. All this repetition and going around in circles was just depressing. He would love to be able to see a bit of sky, or just something else other than rock and bones. His companions did not count. Most of them were in a relatively bad mood anyway. Aragorn mostly spoke to Gandalf now. Being one of the two people who had been in Moria before, he was always discussing their course with the wizard. Of course, it was probably a wise thing to do, given that they were all anxious to get out of this maze.

Legolas, after having heard the sound of the hammer, had resumed his perpetual watch for danger. His bright eyes kept on looking everywhere, and it was impossible to hold his attention. Not that he made very good company at the moment; he was much too nervous. There was nothing left of Gimli's initial excitement, and Logan could not blame him. Boromir was the only one who was behaving in a relatively normal way, but lately, he had taken to sharpening his sword whenever they were not marching. Perhaps it was his way of dealing with the stress. Logan would have loved to sharpen his claws too; that would actually give him something to do apart from sit there and listen to the muffled silence which surrounded them.

It took a long time. At least, it felt like a very long time. For lack of something to do, Logan had pulled out some stale jerky and started gnawing on it. He wasn't hungry, but at least it took his mind off the possibility that they might never get out of here. It was not a pleasant thought. At last, Gandalf seemed to reach some conclusion, for he turned to the others. "We shall take the path on the left, for it goes uphill."

"That's it?" said Logan. "Took you a while to figure that out."

"Oh come, Master Logan," said the wizard, shaking his head. "You did not seriously think that was the only factor which prompted me to choose this path? There were a number of other factors, but there are too many to list. I suggest you trust my judgement. Yours did not lead us anywhere, after all."

"That's not fair, and you know it," said Logan. "You've been here before. I'm relying on pure talent here."

"Logan, is your objective to amuse us? I tell you now, if your answer is yes, that you have succeeded, at least where I am concerned," said Aragorn.

"Hey, I was absolutely serious," said Logan, but he did not mind making the others laugh. So far, apart from killing things, he had not been able to do much to help them. If he couldn't smell his way out, at least he could still make them laugh and feel a little less depressed.

The tunnel which Gandalf had chosen was rather narrow with a very low ceiling. At times, the Wolverine wondered if he would have to duck to avoid hitting his head. He was the tallest here. The peaks of his hair did touch the ceiling once, but overall, it was high enough to accommodate Logan. It did widen towards the end. As they came closer to the end of the tunnel, the light from Gandalf's staff illuminated a few tall columns, indicating that there was something else out here besides broken bridges, crumbling staircases and narrow winding tunnels.

However, nothing could have prepared Logan for what lay at the end. As he emerged from the tunnel, he could not help but suck in a quick breath, for the sight which he now beheld was magnificent, even in the dim light. He had seen many architectural miracles in his life, including buildings which touched the clouds and bridges which could span the narrowest parts of certain oceans. However, nothing had been as amazing as this. Someone had carved an entire hall under a mountain. No, not a hall, but a city, from the looks of it. All he could see where huge round columns of dark rock. They were as smooth as glass, and on them, someone had lovingly etched different designs for each column. They were all unique. He could make out highly stylized images; perhaps these columns were designed to tell a story. What the story was, he could not tell, for to understand it, one would probably have to explore every inch of this city and look at every column. They simply did not have the time to do that. The light from Gandalf's staff could not even reach the top of those columns. They were that tall.

Behind him, he could hear the other members of the Fellowship gasping at the grandness of all this. "Dwarrowdelf," murmured Gimli in awe.

"Yes, Gimli," said Gandalf. "This is the dwarven city in Moria. Durin and his kin ruled here in a bygone age." As the wizard spoke, he turned to look at them. There was a wistful smile on his face, as if he remembered those days of Moria's glory. "It was not dark then, but filled with firelight and song."

"You dwarves sure make nice bomb shelters," said Logan, forgetting momentarily that he should not use modern terms with these people. "How long did this take?"

"Many many lifetimes of men, Master Logan," said Gimli. "It is carved out of a mountain."

"Well, yeah, I guess," said Logan. God, who would have the patience? Even the Pyramids of Giza would have taken less time. 'I guess I found the Eighth Wonder of the World,' he thought. Journalists, scientists and historians would give anything to come to this place, just as he would give anything to get out of it. Suddenly, Logan was aware that there was another source of light apart from Gandalf's staff and Boromir's torch. Was that a way out? Now _that_ was a sight worth seeing. He wasn't the only one with that opinion. Legolas darted forwards, and only a sharp word from Gandalf stopped him from running straight towards the light.

"Do not be foolish," said the wizard. "We do not know what lies out there."

"I beg your pardon, Mithrandir," said the elf. "I am simply glad to see sunlight."

Boromir, however, was more cynical. "What if it is not sunlight?" he asked. "That draught of fresh air which Logan smelled only led us to an empty well."

"There is only one way to find out," said Gandalf. "Be on your guard."

"We've been on guard ever since we came in here," said Logan. "Apart from some skeletons, and that hammer, we haven't met anything."

"Hammers do not move of their own accord, Master Logan," said Gandalf. "The fact that we heard one means that there are indeed inhabitants in Moria. Whether they are friends or foes, I do not know."

"And I don't want to find out," said Pippin.

The light, it seemed was coming from yet another chamber, much larger than the guardroom which they had spent part of the night in. The open doors were still attached to the hinges, although the wood was soft and rotten. Logan's shoulder bumped against one of them. It did not take well to the impact, for part of it crumbled. "Ugh, sawdust," said Logan, brushing the powder off his tattered leather jacket. Well, there was good news, and there was bad news. The light was sunlight, so at least Legolas got his wish; part of it, anyway. The bad news was that said sunlight was coming in from a shaft in the ceiling, which was rather high, although not as high as the ceiling of that dwarf city whose name Logan would not even endeavour to pronounce. Even if any of them could reach it, and no one had thought to bring rope and a grapple hook, it looked hardly big enough for a hobbit to go through. "Well, that's that," said the Wolverine, crossing his arms. "What next?"

No one paid him any attention. They had surrounded what looked like a grey stone box in the very centre of the room. Logan raised an eyebrow. Of all the things they could be interested in, why a grey box? Since there was nothing to do, he joined the little crowd around it, and was surprised by the solemnity. Gimli had knelt in front of it with his hood over his head, casting his face in shadow. Logan stared at the box, and then at his friends. What the hell was going on? Was he missing something? Again? No one seemed to be about to offer him any answers, and he feared that any questions on his part might be seen as offensive.

There was some writing on the lid of the stone box. Logan squinted at them, turning his head this way and that way. Some of those characters looked familiar. He could pick out one which looked like a 'P'. Others, however, looked like marks on a tally chart. "Um...what does that say?" he finally asked. It seemed like a safe question; it would both get him some much needed answers, and at the same time, convey his utter confusion. Hey, he was becoming subtle! Was it something to do with the air in Moria, which was foul, by the way? He felt a hand on his arm. It was Aragorn's. The ranger drew him away from the rest of the group which had gathered around the stone box.

"That is the tomb of Gimli's cousin," whispered the ranger. "You might want to act accordingly."

Logan winced. Now that he thought about it, the question was bad, even if it had not been as bad as it could have been. Once again, 'sorry' was even less than inadequate, so he opted to remain silent and bow his head. At his foot was a broken axe. Its owner had died trying to defend their last sanctuary. From the looks of things, it had not been much of a sanctuary. The Wolverine looked around; there was no way out except for that door, and one would assume that the enemy had been blocking that exit. It was no wonder they had all died. Even if they had had the numbers, they would not have had enough supplies. This did not look like a storeroom. That they had managed to build a tomb for someone was already a miracle.

The rustle of paper caught his attention. Automatically, his claws came out, but he retracted them when he found out that it was only Gandalf. The wizard had discovered an old book. Its writer had died holding it, and most likely, he had died while penning his final word. Gandalf brushed some of the dust off the cracked leather cover with a gnarled hand. It came off in a cloud of white. With utmost care, he opened the book. The spine cracked, and some of the pages fell out, for they were brittle with age. The ink had faded away, leaving only faint tracks. Logan picked up those fallen pages, treating them with the respect he felt for the fallen secretary...scribe...whatever it was. The point was that he had been brave enough to continue with his duties even when death had been imminent. He might not have wielded a sword or a gun, but he was a soldier nonetheless.

The pages had a unique musty smell, not of paper, but of leather. This was parchment. God, they actually used _parchment _here? How far behind, scientifically speaking, were they? Logan traced the writing with one finger. Just like the words on the tomb, he could not read any of it, but they were extraordinarily well-formed, as if they had been typed. The slight discrepancies were hardly visible to the human eye. Logan could not account for the elven eye. No doubt Legolas' eye would be able to pick up imperfections.

Gandalf flipped to the last page. The writing had gotten increasingly messier, until it simply fell off the page in one hasty final scrawl. On the blank page next to it were old bloodstains, no longer red, but a rusty faded brown, giving witness to the fate of the writer. From the looks of the blood patterns, it looked as if blood had sprayed out at a very quick rate and across quite a distance. The scribe had died quickly, which had been a small mercy, but a mercy nonetheless.

Boromir stepped forward and placed a hand on Gimli's shoulder. This was a soldier's way of offering comfort and condolences. Military men were not fond of words, for they knew how inadequate they were in the face of death and loss; they had seen too much of it. Logan recognized that gesture, although he could not exactly remember who had shown it to him. Had he ever done the same for anyone else? He would like to think that he had.

"This tells of the last days of Balin's colony," said Gandalf, peering closely at the faded writing. "The goblins attacked, and they overwhelmed the dwarves. They fought, but it was a losing fight, for the goblins kept on coming. They spoke of 'fire', although the scribe clearly did not know what 'fire' the goblins were talking about."

"What does he say, Gandalf?" asked Gimli. The dwarf's voice was soft and raw with grief, as if his kinsmen had only died yesterday. It probably felt that way for him; he had only just found out, after all.

"Are you certain you want to hear this, Gimli?" asked the wizard.

"I want to know, Gandalf," said the dwarf. His eyes, although still wet with unshed tears, were now hard with resolution. "Balin's story deserves to be told."

Sighing, Gandalf turned his attention back to the page again. " 'They have trapped us here, in the Chamber of Mazarbul. We have barred the doors, but we cannot hold them. We cannot get out.' Here, it is smudged so badly that I cannot make out the words. But the last words are clear enough. It says, 'Drums. Drums in the deep. We cannot get out. They are coming—' It seems that our scribe did not manage to finish his account.'

"What a terrible way to go," said Pippin with a shiver. He was probably regretting that rock of his. That poor little hobbit had no idea what he had volunteered for, and Logan was quite certain that he was almost regretting it now, although Pippin would never admit it. The Wolverine's musings were rudely interrupted by what sounded like a percussion band, only much worse. Phrases from the passage Gandalf had just finished reading to them leapt out at him, especially that line about drums in deep places, or something like that. The claws came out again, and this time, Logan had a feeling that they were going to need them.

"They're coming!" cried Merry.

"Can we get out?" demanded Pippin.

"Probably not, from the sound of things," said Logan.

"Bar the doors and brace them!" shouted Aragorn. Boromir rushed to the doors, only to jerk back a couple of moments later, before he even reached it. Two dark arrows had embedded themselves in the rotten wood where his head had been only a few seconds ago.

"Boromir!" shouted Logan.

"I am fine!" came Boromir's response. "Although, I will be a lot better once we get rid of that cave troll."

"Cave what?" said Logan. "You have got to be kidding me! Do I look like one of the three Billy Goats Gruff to you?" No one answered his question, not that he had expected an answer. Grabbing an axe with a long shaft off the floor, he rushed back to the doors. They needed to be barred, and it was no big deal if he was shot. The others, namely Gimli, Legolas, Aragorn and Boromir, joined him. Logan knew how to build basic things, such as wooden cabins, but barricading doors against trolls? He had to concede that the others probably were a thousand times more experienced when it came to dealing with trolls. They did not draw all their knowledge from fairy tales, after all.

"Boromir, Legolas and Logan, to the front!" shouted Aragorn as the last 'brace' —a spear with a missing tip— was put in place. "Legolas, centre front! Logan and Boromir, I want you flanking us! Should they break through, our arrows will be our first defence."

"I hope you can fire ten arrows at a time, because if you wanna be our defence, you're gonna need to do that!" said Logan. However, he did as he was told. It made sense, actually, except if he could, he would have given Legolas an assault rifle instead. However, having an assault rifle in Middle Earth was venturing into the realms of fantasy. Here, wizards and goblins and elves made perfect sense. Guns, however, did not.

Aragorn turned to the frightened hobbits. They had all drawn their tiny swords and taken defensive stances, although anyone could tell that they lacked experience. At least no one was hyperventilating. That had to count as a good thing. Frodo's sword was actually glowing. For a moment, Logan thought that he might have fallen into yet another universe. Frodo had a light sabre! Well, the odds might not be so bad after all. Then he realized that it was only the presence of the goblins which was making it glow; it was some sort of magic elvish radar, apparently, which glowed when orcs were close. Quite handy, if one did not have the Wolverine's sense of hearing and smell.

"Remember, we are _defending_," said Aragorn. "That means I do not want anyone attempting a one man assault!"

"The best defence is an offence!" hollered Logan. "I say we hit their centre, get rid of their leaders, and then they'll just go to pieces!"

"If we were not dealing with goblins, I would applaud that strategy," said Boromir. "The only problem with applying that tactic is that goblins have no true leader apart from the one in Mordor."

"Your claws will have to be long indeed, Logan, if you are to strike the Dark Lord from here," said Legolas.

Their barricades proved to be next to useless, not that it came as a surprise to anyone. The wooden doors were already crumbling, and their bracings were hardly strong. The goblins' loud shrieking grated on his sensitive hearing. If they were breaking down the door, couldn't they at least have the decorum to not scream like killer monkeys in a B-grade horror film? It was bad enough that they were going to swamp them like ants. Logan didn't want to be deaf as well as dead.

A hole appeared in the wood, and before the goblins could shoot through it, Legolas released his arrow, shooting the goblin first. The shrieking increased. God, it was irritating. Logan just wanted to stick his claws into the thing to make it shut up. However, Aragorn had specifically said that there were to be no one man assaults, and considering their situation, Logan saw no reason to disobey him. He would get to stick his claws in goblins soon enough, considering the rate at which they were breaking down the door.

Something ripped the doors from their hinges. Dust, splinters and rubble flew everywhere, creating an impermeable haze. What emerged from that haze made even the Wolverine hesitate.

Logan had never seen a troll before. Indeed, people in his world did not even _believe_ in trolls. It was rather unnerving to have all one's beliefs overthrown in such a manner. It did not look anything like those trolls in those children's books, although the club was rather stereotypical. For one, it wasn't even green. Then again, it could have simply been the light.

Boromir lashed out at the troll. The blade of his sword connected squarely with the creature's leg, but it merely delivered something which must have felt like a paper cut to the troll, for it was not hindered at all. The Gondorian barely managed to duck as the furious troll took a wild swing at him with its club. The sound of wind as the club sailed through the air was clearly heard, at least by the Wolverine.

"This thing belongs in the zoo!" shouted Logan as he darted in to distract the troll, ducking between its tree trunk legs and plunging his claws into the back of its knee. His claws pierced the thick leathery hide easily enough, although he encountered more resistance than usual. The troll roared, more in anger than in pain. Thick blood spurted onto his hands. It was unlike any blood he had ever smelled, unless rotten fish blood could be counted. He pulled out his claws as the troll whipped around and then dropped and rolled, only to crash into a goblin, sending the creature flying with the impact. It had not been a particularly large goblin. The Wolverine was on his feet at an instant, blocking one goblin's attempt to stab him by trapping the blade of its sword in his claws, and at the same time, stabbing another goblin in the face. He couldn't decide which was worse; goblin blood, or troll blood. In the end, he had to go with troll blood. There was so much more of it.

Arrows were flying everywhere. More often than not, they missed, but one archer always shot his target. Elves were such perfectionists. Legolas' movements looked more like ballet than fighting. He gripped his bow in his left hand; one of his long white knives was in his right. The blade could hardly be seen, for it was moving so quickly. Often, all that Logan did see —when he wasn't concentrating on dealing out death and destruction— were flashes of light and then spurts of goblin blood. Somehow, the elf managed to miss all the blood too. Certainly, none of it got on him.

The troll, however, was proving to be the most destructive thing of all. It had not killed any members of the Fellowship, yet, but at the rate it was going, it was bound to succeed sooner or later, unless it was stopped. Who better to stop it than the almost indestructible Wolverine? Logan made his way onto a ledge; it wasn't easy, especially with so many goblins trying to behead him. However, their rough cast iron swords were no match for his adamantium.

Balanced on the ledge, he could see almost everything. Gimli was diverting the troll; it had seemed intent on killing Sam. For someone who looked so bulky, the dwarf was very agile. He swung his two axes with deadly grace, and it was not often that he missed. It would be a very bad idea to get into the dwarf's bad books.

Logan's muscles tensed as he prepared, and then he launched himself at the troll, propelling himself as high into the air as possible so that he would be able to land on the troll's back or shoulder. There was no need to think. His body knew what it was doing. The impact caused the troll to stumble, and Logan almost fell off the creature's back, but he dug his claws into its shoulder, latching on the way a predator would latch itself onto its prey before killing it. The thing was, most prey lacked arms with which they could pluck off predators.

The troll flailed wildly as it clawed at Logan with its stubby blunt fingers. Goblins were crushed beneath its feet as it overbalanced at times. Using his claws like rock picks, Logan pulled himself up the troll's back. Now, if only he could reach the neck and sever an artery or two...

The troll caught him before he managed that. Pulling Logan off its back, it flung the Wolverine through the air. There was a loud metallic clank as Logan crashed into one of the walls of stone. The stone cracked upon impact. Logan fell to the ground, unconscious and vulnerable.

"Logan!" cried Aragorn. His sword was already black with the blood of orcs, but more seemed to replace those which he had cut down. The ranger fought his way over to Logan's side. He roared as he decapitated one orc who was attempting to stab the unconscious man. "Logan, come on! Wake up!" The Wolverine did not move, and the goblins, seeing an easy target, were closing in on him. It would seem that Aragorn was Logan's only defence right now, but the Fellowship took care of its own. Gimli was hacking his way towards the unconscious Logan as well. His loud dwarvish battle cry resounded throughout the chamber of Mazarbul. It was not only his voice, but the voices of his dead kindred, crying for revenge.

"The spirit of the dwarves shall never be vanquished!" he roared. His axe fell, and cleaved the head of one goblin, helmet and all, as if it were nothing but a ripe melon. Brains and blood splattered everywhere. The ground was treacherously slippery with gore. If one did not watch his step, it would be so easy to slip and therefore leave an opening in his defences. That was what had happened to the troll. It was trying to scramble to its feet as it was batting arrows away from its eyes. As it rose, it lunged at the archer who was causing it so much trouble, namely a certain elven prince. Legolas danced out of the troll's reach, leading it on and making it even angrier. Froth flew from the troll's mouth. And then, it became fixated on something much easier to catch than an elf. Even trolls were not entirely stupid, and this one had seen a frightened hobbit.

It made a grab for Frodo and caught him by the ankle. The Ringbearer's cry alerted the rest of the Fellowship to the situation. Just as well Logan woke up at that exact moment, or else Aragorn would have been torn as to who he ought to protect. "I hate trolls!" groaned the Wolverine, rubbing his face. Seeing that he was fine, Aragorn left Logan to his own devices. He would know how to protect himself, even if he did have a headache.

Logan shook his head. The dull ache was fading, and he had no time to think about aspirin, even if they had any in Middle Earth. There were things to kill, namely a very large troll. Once more, he charged, this time aiming for the leg. Hamstringing the thing might stop it; he would not know unless he tried it. Goblins were no obstacle for him. He simply shoved them out of the way. Stabbing them took too much time, especially since he would need to pull his claws out of them. The troll was the key. If they got rid of the troll, then they would have a chance, albeit a very small chance. His plan proved to be more difficult to execute than he had thought, for the troll would not stay still, not even for a moment. Logan barely missed being crushed by one of those giant feet. His claws cut through skin and flesh, but unfortunately, they were not long enough to reach tendon. Foul blood splashed onto his face as the troll roared. He leapt out of the way, landing ungracefully on his front, just as the troll tried to stand on him. He spat; some of the blood had gotten into his mouth.

"Is that all you got, Shrek?" he shouted. "Come on! Pick on someone your own size!" It didn't matter that Shrek was an ogre, and that the troll had not understood a single word. It became distracted enough for Boromir to bury his sword deep into the softer area behind the troll's knee. The troll bellowed as it dropped Frodo and stumbled. However, at the same time, it took up a discarded orc pike. Who knew that trolls had such deadly aim? It plunged the pike into Frodo's chest.

* * *

**A/N: **I hope you enjoyed that. I love reviews. Advice and suggestions are most welcome. I might not do everything readers say that I should do, but I do consider every point.


	18. So Shoot Me!

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize. I'm just borrowing them for the purposes of this tale.

**Warning: Spoilers for **_**X-Men Origins: Wolverine**_

**CameoCorbin: **I love writing cliff-hangers. They're one of my favourite devices, probably because I feel that they sound good as chapter endings, amongst other reasons.

**R-Cleberg: **I have seen the new Wolverine movie; really enjoyed it. I was probably thinking of the Logan vs. Helicopter scene when I wrote that move. Glad you enjoyed the action.

**Violet: **I was pretty sure that in the book, Gandalf didn't pick the path he did because the air smelled fresher. I think he said that he didn't pick one of the other ones because the air down there smelled foul. I'll have to check though.

**Darcy: **I'm glad you enjoyed the chapters. Aragorn is quite an interesting character to write. As I continue with this story, I am discovering more things about him.

_Thank you all for your reviews and suggestions. _

**Chapter 18: So Shoot Me! **

If this had been a film, this would have been the moment when slow motion would have been employed to dramatize it. All music would have been muted so that the audience would feel the full impact of what was happening on the screen. None of this happened here. It took a while for Logan to realize, as Frodo was propelled backwards by the power of the blow, what exactly was going on. It had all happened so quickly, and it was so unexpected; his mind simply could not register it, or perhaps it just refused to accept it.

However, the Wolverine had never denied reality for long. It wasn't in his nature. As the hobbit fell to the floor of the chamber, still and seemingly dead, something awakened in him; he had not felt anything like that for a long time. It was the desire to cause pain; to make the enemy pay for what they had done to him and those whom he cared for. It was vengeance.

The troll was struggling to get up, but Boromir had succeeded in doing what he had aimed to do; the troll's injured leg buckled beneath it. The creature seemed utterly confused as to why its leg refused to hold it upright. Science, it seemed, was not one of its strengths. However, strength was one of its strengths. Even if it could not charge everywhere, it was still doing much damage by throwing rubble at everything that moved. Discrimination was alien to the troll.

Science wasn't one of Logan's strengths either, but he knew enough about basic anatomy to know exactly how to deliver an effective killing blow, even to something four times his height. He retracted his claws. No matter how hard or sharp they were, they simply were not the best weapons for troll slaying. Eighteen inches just wasn't enough. He needed something long; one of those long swords would be good, but he did not think that borrowing one such sword would be a good idea, especially since their owners needed them at the moment. He snatched up a discarded spear. It had not been made by goblins, for the shaft was too well-crafted, and made of metal, which made it very heavy. It was probably too heavy for a normal human, but perhaps a stocky dwarven warrior would have been able to wield it. The tip was blunt, but brute force would make up for that, and Logan had plenty of brute force. However, he would need to reach his target on the first attempt, or else the troll was simply going to throw him off again.

His eyes landed on Gimli's cousin's smashed tomb. It seemed a bit disrespectful, but he supposed that the dead dwarf would probably be grateful if someone took down the troll which had smashed his resting place. At any rate, it was the best thing around, short of trying to climb onto a ledge with a spear, and it would have to do. He ran up to the tomb, put one foot onto it, and then propelled himself into the air with a roar. The troll looked up and roared back. That was not good. He wanted to land on the troll's neck, not in the troll's mouth! At that moment, Aragorn drove his blade into the creature's thick muscled thigh, causing it to look down again, just in time too, for at that moment, Logan made his landing. Perfect!

Before the troll could replicate its move last time when Logan had landed on it, the Wolverine drove the spear into the back of its neck, just below the skull. Logan felt the spearhead grate against the base of the troll's skull. Or that could just be him, because the troll knew what was going on, and it was shaking its head violently as well as trying to grab the pesky Wolverine. With a grunt and one final effort, Logan shoved the spear in. Bingo! The troll fell forward, not even able to howl. If Logan hadn't been holding tightly onto that spear, he would have been thrown against the wall yet again.

He gritted his teeth as the troll crashed to the floor, quite dead. It was a rough landing, but considering the circumstances, he thought he did quite a good job of it. At least, he could probably land a troll better than he could land a plane. Still, he stayed where he was for a while to catch his breath. Troll killing took quite a bit of effort.

The others paid him no attention; he had expected that. There were more pressing concerns, such as Frodo's health. Having regained his breath, he more or less tumbled off the troll to join the others around Frodo, although he dreaded seeing what had become of the little hobbit. A blow of that nature would be enough to hinder Sabretooth. The only person he knew who could face such an attack and be totally unharmed was Magneto, and that was because he would simply use his powers to divert the spear.

Aragorn was kneeling at the Ringbearer's side. Slowly, he reached out, as if he was reluctant to touch Frodo, yet knowing that they all needed to find out what had happened. The ranger gently turned the hobbit over, only to find that Frodo was gasping for breath and very much alive, despite having been hit squarely with a pike. Through the tears in his jacket, Logan could see something metallic glinting beneath the fabric. "Metallic exoskeleton!" exclaimed the Wolverine. "Aha! This is a genius of evolution!" He suspected that he wasn't making much sense. Indeed, even he wasn't quite sure what he was talking about. Evolution was just a random process. There was very little genius involved. However, he didn't care. Frodo was alive, even after all of that! Hobbits were tougher than they looked.

"What's an egg-so skeleton?" asked Merry absently. His mind wasn't really in it; he was too busy trying to digest the fact that his cousin had survived the troll's attempt to skewer him. And who could blame the Brandybuck? It was a miracle. At last, fortune was smiling on them.

"It's not a skeleton, Logan," said Gandalf. "It's armour. _Mithril_."

Me thrill? "Well, yes, I'm thrilled too," said Logan. "Or do you say 'me thrilled' here?"

That did it. The entire Fellowship burst into laughter, even Frodo, although he sounded as if he was wheezing for breath; he probably was. Even if he hadn't been skewered, that blow would have left a nasty bruise. However, that could not detract from the momentary merriment. They were so relieved that the Ringbearer was still alive. Of course, Logan was not pleased that they were laughing at him again, but he grinned and bore it. He could get them back for it later. Right now, he just wanted to get out of here. He could hear more infernal shrieking, and it was getting very close. "Very funny," he said. "I bet you think that fighting more goblins will be fun too, huh?"

"Not my idea of fun," said Frodo, scrambling to his feet. "Can we get out now?"

"Most certainly, my dear hobbit," said Gandalf. "To the bridge. Follow me!"

"You sure you're not lost?" called Logan as he ran after the wizard. Who knew that old men with staffs and long beards could run so quickly? It was as if Gandalf was a professional marathon runner. Even stranger yet, he never seemed to get tired. 'He's a wizard,' the Wolverine reminded himself. 'It's probably one of his spells.' It never occurred to him that there was a chance that Gandalf might not be human, or at least a normal human being, just as Logan was not a normal human being.

The shrieks were deafening as they filed out of the ruined chamber of something-rather-bull. Goblins were pouring out from every crevice in the ground, and some of them were clambering down the pillars as if they had suction pads on their hands and feet. It was like some bizarre theme park ride, only this one did not have any little cars, nor was there any cheesy music. Hell, this was what reality looked like now, in this strange world. Logan wasn't even surprised anymore. Right, so he was a little surprised that goblins could cling onto smooth stone columns like ants. Who wouldn't be? However, he didn't have time to stay surprised for long. At this rate, they would be surrounded by legion upon legion of goblins before they could get anywhere. The circle was tightening. Correction: They were already surrounded.

Logan growled and brandished his claws. They glinted dully in the sickly orange light from the goblin's smoky torches. The others had drawn their weapons. Legolas' bow was taut as he prepared to put up one last fight. If they were all to die here, then they would die deaths which were worthy of remembrance, should anyone ever find out what had happened to them. Too bad there wasn't time to write one quick note, like that scribe, not that he would know what to write. He should probably just stick to killing things.

"Here we go," he muttered to the person next to him, who happened to be Gandalf. From the corner of his eye, Logan saw the wizard raise one bushy grey eyebrow and give the smallest of wry smiles.

"Again," murmured Gandalf. "I hope you can do some fast claw work."

"I might not be an expert in magic and all that, but I'm good at what I do, even if what I do ain't very nice." He turned his attention back to the goblins. "And you can come and test that for yourselves!" He bared his teeth at them and a guttural snarl issued from deep down within him. The goblins shrank back, but only a little. They were not entirely stupid, and they knew that they could overwhelm this predator. They snarled back, showing sharp yellowed teeth. Logan was under no illusions, but he sure as hell was not going to give up. He never gave up; he didn't know what it meant to give up. If he wanted to do something, then he was going to do it or die trying. Since it was very unlikely that he was going to die, then he would just have to keep trying until he succeeded. That was it. His philosophy was very simple and easy to remember. It was what defined him, and he was not going to let go of that just because he was in a strange world filled with monsters of every denomination. Even if he was in hell, and this wasn't quite as bad as some of the other situations he had been in, he would challenge even the Devil himself.

At that moment, as the goblins closed in on them, there was a low rumble which resounded through the abandoned dwarven city. It shook the very foundations of the ground. Logan could feel the tremble through the thick soles of his boots. An earthquake? In this place, that would be extremely unpleasant; probably not as unpleasant as being ripped apart by a thousand goblins, but still unpleasant.

The goblins did not seem to like that idea either, for they scrambled back, as quickly as they had come out, into the crevices from which they had sprung. It was quite an unexpected turn of events, not that an earthquake actually improved their situation. Wait, this didn't feel like an earthquake. Why had the trembling suddenly stopped? There, again! The ground shook. No, it wasn't an earthquake. Logan was suddenly reminded of Spielberg's dinosaur movie. A growl echoed in the emptiness. God, extinct prehistoric reptiles with a taste for meat didn't live here, did they? _The Wolverine and the T-Rex_. That sounded like one of those cheap B-grade action flicks. 'Nah, I'd sleep through one of those,' he thought. He wouldn't sleep through this.

"Gandalf?" said Pippin. "Don't you think we should go now?" The hobbit glanced at the direction of the exit. It was only a shadow amongst shadows, but the outline was clear enough. Gandalf paid him no heed. His head was bowed, as if he was deep in thought.

"What new devilry is this?" came Boromir's hoarse whisper. The man from Gondor was staring at something. Logan followed the direction of his stare. There was light, only, it was not a pleasant sort of light. The long shadows of the stone columns flickered. There was another heavy footfall. Logan sniffed. There was no mistaking it. Something was burning, and the fire seemed to be coming their way very quickly.

"A Balrog," said Gandalf. It meant very little to Logan, but the declaration seemed to make most of the Fellowship freeze. Legolas' face became paler, if that was even possible. The elf swallowed and...was Legolas' hand actually _trembling_? He had no time to think about it. Whatever it was, there was only one thing they could do.

"Bell-rock, bellhop...whatever!" said Logan. "Run, or else you're gonna get your arses burnt! That's a fire, or I've never smelled one!" The sudden shout, or perhaps the use of a certain word, made his companions spring into action. Gandalf herded them through the narrow doorway and into an even narrower tunnel, with steps. They plunged onward, their path lit only by Gandalf's staff and Boromir's torch. Logan was near the back, right behind the hobbits. If anything wanted to get at them, then by God, they would have to get through him first. It was becoming warmer. In fact, it was getting downright hot. He could feel the sweat running down his back between his shoulder blades, soaking his thin singlet.

The hobbits suddenly stopped, and Logan almost crashed into them. Just as well he didn't, for if he had, seven members of the Fellowship would have fallen to their deaths. The rest of the stair had collapsed, and Legolas had only just managed to pull Boromir back before he followed his torch down the sharp drop which could only end in a sudden stop. The man and elf lay in a heap of tangled limbs at the edge, and from the looks of things, that part of the stair seemed to be about to crumble as well. "Take the stair to the side!" came Aragorn's shout from behind him.

Logan tried to keep his eyes focused on the steps in front of him instead of looking at the sharp drops on either side. Heights were definitely not his favourite thing. He would deal with them, of course, the way he dealt with everything else, but they had to be amongst one of the top ten things he hated the most. Perhaps after Magneto and goblins. And dark places which smelled of rotting flesh, the lack of coffee, being shot, stabbed and otherwise abused... All right, maybe heights ranked somewhere in his top twenty most hated things, instead of the top ten.

And then, it loomed before him in the distance. Well, not loomed, but it was there; a bridge which looked as if it would lead to an exit. "That's the bridge of Khazad Dûm!" cried Gandalf. "Have heart! We have almost come to the end of this stage of the journey!" There was something forced about the wizard's encouraging tone. Then again, that was not surprising. Everyone needed some cheering up. While Gandalf's words were heartening, a huge problem lay before them; about seven feet wide, and many feet deep. Logan didn't want to hazard a guess. After all, it must be unfathomably deep if he couldn't even see the bottom.

"Blast!" said Sam. "I knew we should have brought some rope!" The little hobbit voiced Logan's thoughts perfectly. However, it wasn't too far a distance to leap, at least not for the Wolverine. For the hobbits, no doubt it would be much too far. They had such short legs.

Legolas was the first to leap, and the elf did it beautifully, just as he did everything else. He soared through the air and landed nimbly, like a cat. Rubble was showering down on them all as the tremors drew closer and closer. It had to be a dinosaur, or something around that size. With that thought in mind, Logan grabbed the hobbit closest to him —Frodo, who protested indignantly— and threw him over. Logan didn't know the next thing about dinosaurs, but he did know that they were nasty, and that was enough for him.

Frodo soared across the chasm. If it hadn't been such a dire situation, Logan would have admired the skill of his throw. It was a perfect arc, with plenty of distance to spare. The only problem was that the goblins had reappeared, and they seemed to think it was a good idea to aim arrows at the poor hobbit. To them, it probably was a good idea. Logan wished he could have an assault rifle, or even a pistol. He would love to show those creatures a thing or two about being targets. He recalled from somewhere that his aim wasn't all that bad.

Gandalf came next. Maybe if Superman ever aged, this was what he would become. The wizard's landing was a little wobbly, but the surprising thing was the fact that he made it over without any apparent use of magic. He had, however, wisely taken his hat off. That large pointy thing probably would only have added to the air resistance. Legolas steadied Gandalf, and then beckoned to the others again. "Come on!" he said. "The gap is not going to become any narrower, and you have to do this sooner or later!"

"I'd say 'ladies first', but since there are no ladies, I suppose I have to amend it and say 'lords first'," said Logan to Boromir, who looked just as enthusiastic as the Wolverine about all this. Logan wasn't really paying much attention to his friend. He was much too preoccupied with staring down at the pitch black chasm.

More rocks fell. One of them almost landed on the Fellowship. In fact, it only missed by a few mere feet. Apparently, that was the last straw for Boromir. Jumping towards safety, with a chance of falling into a deep chasm, was better than being crushed by falling rubble. Taking Merry under one arm and Pippin under the other, the Gondorian leapt with a great cry. Just as he jumped, more rock broke away beneath his feet and tumbled into the depths below, disintegrating as it fell. Defying all odds, the three made it safely across.

"Come on, everyone!" said Pippin breathlessly. "It's actually quite safe."

Sam went next, taking the same way which Frodo had, except instead of Logan, he was thrown by Aragorn with strength which belied his lean frame. The poor hobbit was too frightened to even scream. However, he needn't have worried, for Aragorn's throw was true, and Boromir was very good at catching hobbits. Now, the only people remaining were Aragorn, Gimli and Logan.

"Oh, damn it!" cried Logan. The hobbits had made it across. It would be awfully embarrassing if he hesitated now. Taking a few steps back, he ran up to the edge and propelled himself forward. A few arrows flew past his head. One went right through his sleeve. However, none of them actually hit him, which was a miracle in itself. Then again, there was no need to hit him, for as Logan landed, the stone could not stand the impact and it fell apart beneath him. Logan fell with it. At the last moment, he grabbed one of the overhanging jagged bits of rock. The sharp edges cut into his hand, but at least he had stopped falling. His other hand flailed as it tried to find something to hold onto. A gloved hand grabbed his wrist.

"I have you, Logan," grunted Boromir. The vein on his temple was throbbing as he exerted all his strength, trying to pull his friend up. Logan struggled to find a foot hold, but they all crumbled. That was not the worst of it. Another stone fell behind Aragorn and Gimli, this time breaking through the stair. The section which the ranger and the dwarf were standing on began to sway. Groans could be heard as rock grated against rock. And then, through some manipulation by the two people on top, it began to tilt forward. If Logan had not been hanging off the other end, that would have been the best possible scenario, for the falling stair was taking both Aragorn and Gimli to safety. However, Logan was there, and it looked as if he was going to become part of a sandwich. He didn't like the thought of that.

He plunged his claws into the rock, using them like a pick axe. They weren't the right shape for the job, but it was better than nothing. Desperation gave him strength. It also gave his friends strength. The timing could not have been better. Just as they hauled Logan up, the falling stair crashed against the one they were on, and they only just managed to catch the other two before the broken section fell away entirely.

There was no time for them to catch their breath. Indeed, no one even thought of resting. They could all feel the growing heat and the tremors in the ground. Something was approaching. A bell-rock or something rather, Gandalf had said. Logan might not have known what it was, but from the looks of things, it was extremely dangerous, and it was coming after them.

"Quickly, to the bridge!" shouted Gandalf. "It's that way! Fly! Fly as if the legions of Mordor are on your tail!" Flames surrounded them, charring stone. But what was it burning? Logan didn't know, and he didn't really care. He simply followed the person in front of him, hoping that he would get across that bridge soon and get out of this place. The blizzard didn't seem so bad now. In fact, he could do with some cooling down at the moment. And some cold beer would go down well. However, he would make do with just getting out of here; one could not be too picky when in a life or death situation.

The bridge they had all been talking about spanned a chasm which was about fifty feet long, and three feet wide. Safety had obviously not been on the agenda when the dwarves had built this bridge, because no one had bothered to put any rails on it. If this had been the States, the government would not have even allowed them to build such a bridge. Perhaps the building code in Middle Earth was a bit lax. Then again, why should he complain? It was a way out, and the narrowness of the bridge meant that it would be difficult for a horde of goblins to pursue them, which was a very good thing. The hobbits were already running across. He followed, hoping that the bridge would not collapse under his weight. Things like that happened to him. Who knew how structurally sound the bridge was? It looked pretty fragile; this wasn't exactly Brooklyn Bridge. No steel cables here.

The last one to cross was Gandalf. Logan would have thought that from here onwards, things were going to be pretty straightforward, but that was not to be. From the inferno came a huge beast unlike anything he had ever seen. He'd never thought that he would say this. "Dragon!" he shouted.

"No, that's a Balrog!" Aragorn corrected him, which didn't exactly improve the way he saw the creature. It looked nothing like a bell, and its skin was on fire. This had to be one of the most unnatural things he had ever seen in his entire life, and he had seen a lot of unnatural things. A mutated mutant with something akin to ten powers came to mind, although this beat super mutant by far.

"Get water!" he shouted. "Is there a stream or a well or something like that?"

"No, and I do not think that defeating a Balrog would be that simple!" said Aragorn. The ranger did not even look away from the scene before him.

Gandalf stood in the middle of the bridge, facing the beast. His grey robes billowed about him in the hot air. "You cannot pass!" he shouted to the creature. The bell-rock snorted disdainfully. Wait, it had understood the wizard? How was it possible? It was not even human!

'Elves and hobbits aren't human either,' Logan reminded himself. Only, elves and hobbits looked a bit more human than this thing. The claws came out. He wasn't going to let that old geezer fight a demon or something rather by himself. Apparently, most of the others had the same idea. Aragorn and Boromir had drawn their swords, and Gimli was brandishing his axe. Legolas, on the contrary, seemed frozen. Maybe they'd just found his weakness; he had an abnormal fear for giant flaming horned creatures...which wielded a giant flaming sword. Come to think of it, it was probably a healthy fear.

Gandalf stood his ground. He seemed to have grown in stature. No longer was he simply an old man in a wizard's costume. No, he looked like Moses in one of those paintings in old churches, holding his staff over the Red Sea to part the waves. Only, instead of letting someone through, Gandalf was blocking a demon's path. The wizard said something about a flame of Arnold; as he did so, he conjured up a shield of cold blue light around himself. The bell-rock roared. Fire issued from its mouth, surrounding the wizard and his shield. However, Gandalf must have been doing something right, for when the flames died down, he wasn't even singed. Not to be outdone so easily, the beast brought his sword down on the wizard, only to have the blade shatter into a thousand smouldering shards on the shield.

"Gandalf! Hang on in there!" shouted Logan. He made to run forwards. At that moment Gandalf raised his staff.

"You shall not pass!" he cried. The staff came down on the bridge with a loud crack which shook the very foundations of the mountains. All things came to a stop as they all anticipated something to happen. Something catastrophic usually accompanied noise of that sort. However, nothing did.

The beast snorted; actually, it was more of a disdainful sniff. It put one foot forward, and then everything happened so quickly that Logan could hardly register what was going on. The bridge crumbled and the beast fell. At that moment, a fiery three-thronged whip snaked up, wrapped itself around the wizard's ankle and dragged him down with his vanquished foe. "Fly, you fools!" he cried, and then he was gone; swallowed by darkness.

"No!" Logan ran forward. If Boromir had not been holding Frodo back, the hobbit would have run after the Wolverine. No one could stop Logan now. Goblin arrows fell down around him, but he didn't care. They couldn't do anything. He reached the edge of the broken bridge. There was nothing except the faintest glimmer of dying flames in the dark depths. Of all the people to fall, Logan had never expected Gandalf to be the first. He was the greatest of them. When they were cold, he gave them fire. When there was darkness, he provided light. When they were confused, he would provide counsel. When they were lost, he would find the way out. And now, he was gone. It was surreal.

"Logan! Come!" came Aragorn's voice. The ranger dragged the Wolverine away from the broken bridge, dodging arrows as he did so. Logan blocked a few with his claws. Already, more goblins had gathered on the other side, bringing three cave trolls carrying stone slabs with them. The Fellowship needed to leave before the goblins succeeded in mending the bridge.

They ran in silence through the narrow tunnel, not really able to comprehend what had happened. Could they have done something about it? Each blamed himself for not doing enough, they were harbouring doubts. With Gandalf gone, how could the quest go on? Who was going to lead them? It seemed like such a hopeless venture.

The bright sunlight almost blinded them as they stumbled out into the open. Cold air slammed into their faces. After the warmth of Moria, it was a stark contrast, and while welcome, it didn't offer much comfort. Logan sank onto the ground. His shoulders were slumped. If anyone could have done something to save Gandalf, it would have been him. He was the one with the healing powers. He should have been the one fighting the beast, not the wizard. He rubbed his dirt-caked face with an even dirtier hand, somehow feeling that it was his fault that the wizard had fallen, even though the rational side of him was telling him that it was simply bad luck. As the others wept, or tried to compose themselves, he simply sat there, twisting a few dried blades of grass between his fingers.

"Logan?" He glanced up to see Boromir. "We have to go. The goblins will not come out into sunlight, but once night falls, they will overwhelm us if we do not get to safety." He sighed. "I know it is a little too soon, perhaps, but..."

"It's fine," said Logan, getting up. "He died so that we could live to save the world. I'm not gonna waste his sacrifice." Boromir gripped his shoulder; a soldier's way of offering comfort. Logan returned the gesture. They were going to need to comfort one another if there was to be any chance for success. The Gondorian handed him a water skin. Logan splashed some of the stale liquid onto his face to wash off the worst of the dried blood and dirt. "How's everyone else?"

"Barely managing," said Boromir. "I worry about Frodo. Gandalf's death has hit him the hardest."

"I guess it would, with what he's carryin' and everythin'," said Logan.

"Yes, yes, it would," said Boromir. He looked away, and Logan noticed that he seemed nervous. However, the soldier from Gondor was not about to share, and Logan was not the prying sort. There were more pressing matters, at any rate.

Aragorn was doing what he did best—taking care of the others. He was applying some sort of herbal poultice to the large bruise which bloomed on Frodo's chest, while Legolas busied himself with bandaging a cut on Sam's forehead. The hobbit seemed mortified that he was being treated by an elven prince, for he was blushing furiously and trying to assure Legolas that he was perfectly fine. Legolas was having none of it, and he repeatedly told Sam that it was perfectly fine; here, he was not a prince, but simply another member of the Fellowship.

Logan slowly approached Gimli. The dwarf was staring at the Eastern Gates of Moria, leaning on his axe. "How are you doin'?" Logan asked him.

"It is my fault, lad," said the dwarf. "My fault that Gandalf fell."

"Don't say that," said Logan. "Why is it your fault anyway?"

"If I had not insisted on going through Moria, none of this would have happened."

"Well, yeah, but it was the only way," said Logan. "I blame the weather."

"A good scapegoat, considering that the weather cannot defend itself against your accusations," said Gimli. He sighed. "I have lost hope, lad. I do not know how this quest is going to end, and to be honest, I am not sure if I want to know."

Logan was in complete agreement with Gimli. So much uncertainty lay before them. At least, if Middle Earth fell, there was a chance that Logan could go back to his own world and continue living his life, but what about these people? What would happen to Boromir's beloved Gondor, or Legolas' woods, or Aragorn's lady? What would happen to Merry, Pippin, Frodo and Sam? Their fate seemed rather bleak, should they fail in their quest. And what if Logan couldn't make it back to New York? These questions plagued him. They repeated over and over again in his head, overlapping with one another until the mental noise almost drove him to madness. That was when he decided it was enough. Since when had the Wolverine been a defeatist? He would take what fate was going to throw at him, and he would deal with it.

"Come on," he said, clapping Gimli on the back. "I think it's time to go. Aragorn's talking about some magic wood somewhere."

* * *

The Golden Wood. That was where Aragorn was leading them. Logan had not expected it to be literally golden, but here they were, walking under leaves which looked like gold. Legolas had explained that they were not actually gold trees with silver trunks but still, it made a very good theme for a jewellery store. He could just imagine the squeals of delight if a girl —by that, he meant ones under the age of twenty— should happen to find this place. They would love cooing over how 'gorgeous' it was. Logan wasn't very good at admiring beauty, even though he did know how to appreciate Rivendell. Natural beauty, however...well, these were just strangely coloured trees, as far as he was concerned. He'd rather have a strangely coloured...he couldn't think of anything at the moment, except how much he would like to turn back time so that he might be able to fix what had happened.

"If only we could have come here in the spring, instead of during winter," said Legolas with a forlorn sigh. Was the elf for real? They'd just escaped from death, and he was lamenting that it wasn't the right season?

"And I am glad to be here, even if it is winter," said Aragorn.

"And I do not like it here," said Gimli.

"Why ever not?" asked Legolas. "This, Master Dwarf, is one of the most wondrous places in Middle Earth. Here dwells the Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn, guardians of the Golden Wood. The Galadhrim are hospitable and merry. In fact, they are not so dissimilar to those elves of my realm."

"What, are they as condescending and sarcastic and pre...I mean, strong as you are?" asked Logan.

"Yes, I admit that I can be condescending and sarcastic, Master Logan," said Legolas in an off-handish manner. What was the elf up to now? He sounded like a predator who was ready to strike. "However, I am not the one who insults everyone without fail."

"You insult me," pointed out Logan.

"Revenge is an honourable practice," said Legolas. He grinned. "As a prince, I am expected to make others pay for their offences against me, no matter who they are. I remember once or twice when Mithrandir himself..." he trailed off. "It was all in good cheer. Those were the days when I was still young and naive enough to be frightened by tales of vampires, although they have not been sighted in Middle Earth for many a year."

"You mean you do have vampires here?" asked a dismayed Logan.

"We had vampires," said Aragorn helpfully. "I am not certain if we still have them. You need not worry about vampires, Logan, since there are other dark creatures for you to worry about."

"Great; as if fiery bell-rocks are not enough, you have undead bloodsuckers with fangs who wear black capes with the collars turned up and sleep in coffins!" said Logan.

"Excuse me?" said Legolas and Aragorn, rather taken aback by Logan's tirade.

"Vampires," said Logan, as if that cleared everything up.

"We do not seem to be talking about the same thing," said Legolas. "They sometimes drink blood, when they have need of extra nourishment, but everything else..."

"How can anyone be un-dead, at any rate?" asked Merry. "If you are un-dead, then you are not dead, which means you are alive."

"Haven't you heard?" said Logan. "Vampires are known as the living dead."

"Which is contradictory in the extreme," said Legolas. "I believe that your breed of vampire is very different from ours, Logan."

"And both breeds sound unpleasant," added Pippin.

"Why don't we leave the comparisons for different breeds of vampire for another time?" suggested Aragorn. "I would like to journey deeper into the woods. The orcs may yet attack the outskirts." He led them deeper and deeper into the woods. Apart from a few birds, one squirrel, and a brook somewhere nearby, Logan couldn't really smell or hear anything. The air smelled pleasant in this place, he had to admit. It was pure, and light, as if there was a higher concentration of oxygen, although that was just a ridiculous notion; air everywhere had the same amount of oxygen.

They came to a small fast-flowing stream. "The Nimrodel," said Legolas. "Long have I desired to hear its song."

"It's a stream," said Logan flatly. Sure, clean fresh water was nice, but what set this stream apart from other clean streams? It certainly didn't really sound any different.

"It is not just any stream, Master Logan," said Legolas, "but I do not expect you to know that." He stepped into the water. "Come! Let these waters wash your weariness away!"

"You seem to be letting these waters wash your shoes instead," said Logan. He took off his boots, for he had no desire to get them wet deliberately. He stood in the middle of the stream, and let the water flow over his bare feet. Legolas was right about this part. His feet did feel better, as if he'd just had a foot massage.

Aragorn let them rest on the opposite bank for a while. Logan lay back on the grassy slopes and closed his eyes, trying to catch a quick catnap. Legolas was singing a song about the stream, although it seemed to have very little to do with a stream and more to do with the tragic love story of an elven king and his girlfriend. Were all elves gifted musicians? It certainly seemed that way. To make things even worse, Legolas had managed to translate the song and keep the rhythm. The elf made Mozart seem mediocre in comparison.

"Do all elven stories have a sad ending?" asked Pippin when Legolas finished.

"Not all, but many do," said Legolas wistfully. "We do not like sad endings, but it is history, and there is nothing we can do to change that."

"Ever heard of historical fiction?" asked Logan lazily.

"I beg your pardon?" asked a very confused Boromir. "How can history be fiction? It happened, and therefore, it is the truth."

"And if it is fiction, then it cannot be history, because it has not happened," said Gimli.

Logan groaned. "It's just something that exists in my world, like the living dead. Don't worry about it, okay?"

"Your world is full of paradoxes," said Aragorn. "It must be a strange place full of conflicting ideas."

"Coming from the man with an immortal girlfriend, that's somethin'," said Logan. "And yeah, there are conflicts everywhere you look in my world. People seem to like being able to hate someone else."

"Why can't you be nice to everyone and simply not like them instead of hate them?" asked Pippin.

"I dunno. I guess if we did that, the weapons dealers would run outta money," said Logan. Then he sat up, and put a finger to his lips. "I hear somethin'," he said. Before he could say anything else, however, archers dressed in grey seemed to appear from nowhere. Their bows were taut, and they were aiming at the Fellowship.

Now, from Logan's experience, if anyone aimed an arrow at him, it meant that they meant him harm. The claws came out in an instant. "You wanna shoot me? So shoot me!" he roared.

Much to his companions' dismay, that was exactly what they did.

* * *

**A/N: **I apologize in advance if there are any horrendous mistakes in this chapter. I was finishing two essays this week, and my mind has not completely recovered yet. I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and it would be lovely if you could tell me if you did (or didn't).


	19. Of Diplomacy and Clawed Men

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Jjinks: **I still have no idea what's going to happen to Boromir. Ultimately, it's up to the plotbunny.

**Vballmania23: **I'm glad you're enjoying the tale so far.

**CameoCorbin: **Glad I could cheer you up :).

**Akirah: **Not quite :P. It would be counter-productive if Logan started killing potential allies.

**Violet: **No doubt she'll be quite shocked. ;)

**Mephisto: **Logan's just extraordinarily blunt. It's part of what I love about him.

**Twig: **Here's the next chapter.

**Chapter 19: Of Diplomacy and Clawed Men**

Logan considered himself an expert when it came to blocking projectiles —he certainly had enough practice. However, even an expert could not block all those arrows which were coming at him. Most of them did get batted away —he might hate William Stryker, but those adamantium claws were very useful— but he could not prevent a couple from hitting their target, namely, him. Elves were just too quick with their arrows. Some of them pierced his flesh — it was extremely irritating, not to mention the fact that the Wolverine was not immune to pain, although he was accustomed to it. He fell to the forest floor with a grunt when one hit him in the gut. Now _that_ hurt.

"Hold!" cried Aragorn, effectively stopping the barrage of feathered projectiles. It was just as well, for certain members of the Fellowship, namely Gimli and Boromir, were looking as if they were ready to do battle there and then in defence of their companion. "This is a misunderstanding!" If it truly was one, then it was a very bad misunderstanding, for there were five elven arrows sticking out of Logan. Some of them would have been fatal, if this had not been the Wolverine. Snarling, Logan got up and yanked the arrows out of him. Blood stained his filthy cotton singlet. The arrows might not have done him much harm, but it hurt to get shot. He snapped them all at once, as if they were nothing more than reeds, and then threw them down to the ground before the shocked elves. Some of them looked uncertain, as if they wanted to run, but their dignity would not let them turn away. Others had nocked their arrows to their bows again and taken aim. Arrows or not, he was prepared this time, and he would have charged at those elves if a certain ranger had not stepped in front of him and blocked his way.

"Peace," said Aragorn. "We are amongst friends here." He bowed to the elves in grey, who, despite looking rather hostile with their bows in their hands, bowed back. Evidently, manners mattered here, even when one was about to be shot. The one in charge still eyed Logan warily. His face was pale, although that could have been his natural colouring. One of his elves said something to him, and he nodded slowly, contemplatively, weighing the odds of...something.

Aragorn stepped forward, and bowed to the elf, who returned his greeting. The ranger said something in elvish, nodding at the rest of the Fellowship. He indicated westward behind them, towards Moria. The leader of the elves said something in reply, and then indicated Logan with a slight nod of his head before making further enquiries, or simply commenting. Logan could not tell. Body language could only convey so much. Legolas interrupted, and then they proceeded to have a longwinded three-way discussion.

Time passed, and eventually, they seemed to reach some compromise, for when Aragorn next spoke, it was in a language which they all understood.

"This is Haldir of Lothlorien," he said, indicating the leader of the elves in grey. "He is a marchwarden under the Lady Galadriel, who is the guardian of this wood." One by one, he introduced them in turn. Logan promptly forgot the names, as there were so many of them, and they had such long names. The Fellowship themselves were introduced. It was a very formal meeting, much like a meeting between two groups of diplomats.

The leader, Haldir, eyed them warily, especially Logan and Gimli. The former was still brandishing his claws, and the latter was scowling at the elves. "They cannot pass through the woods of Lothlorien," he declared.

"Haldir, we are all part of one Fellowship," argued Aragorn. "They will go wherever we go, until they choose otherwise. I assure you that they are honourable and trustworthy warriors. I can vouch for them." The ranger looked to Legolas, as if asking for his support, since he was an elf, and it was likely that Haldir would feel more reassured if Legolas said something too.

"You have my word as a prince of Mirkwood that they are friends of Lothlorien, Haldir, just as I am," he said. There was something different about this version of Legolas. Seldom had Logan seen him so serious, and so regal. It was not like the first time they had met, when the elf had been proud and openly hostile. No, this was the benevolent but distant prince. Well, at least that was the way Logan felt; he had met a limited number of princes in his time. In fact, Legolas was the first proper royal he had met. "Your welcome has startled them; they mean no harm." Now, that was just downright insulting. Logan did mean to harm those elves, unless they made it up to him, of course. So far, they were showing no signs of doing that. In fact, some of the elves still had their arrows to their bowstrings.

"But what possessed you to bring a dwarf to Lothlorien?" said Haldir. "There is no love between the two races. Surely you know that."

"And yet, we must put aside our differences and cooperate if we are to fight the evil which is coming from the east," said Aragorn before anyone could say anything to further worsen the situation.

Haldir said something in rapid elvish, and Aragorn answered him with another long string of foreign syllables of his own, gesturing fervently as he spoke. The two were soon immersed in a debate, with Legolas interrupting once or twice. However, the elven prince generally tended to stare into space with impatience, rather than embroil himself in the argument. However, as Haldir and Aragorn seemed to come to some sort of compromise, Legolas raised an eyebrow. The ranger sighed and shook his head; apparently, he did not need words to convey his feelings to the elf, something which only made Logan even more frustrated. Couldn't the two of them drop a hint or something? There were people who would like to know what was going on.

"Come," Haldir said to them. His tone was no warmer than it had been before, but at least he wasn't telling them that certain members were not allowed into his woods.

"Geez, and I thought you were unfriendly," Logan whispered to Legolas.

"They are not entirely to blame," the elf whispered back in reply. "You asked them to shoot you, and they merely obliged.

"Even if I hadn't asked, they probably would have shot me anyway," said Logan.

"True enough," conceded the elf. "You do have a rather threatening appearance, Master Logan. Did you know that?"

The elves in grey led them through the forest, following indiscernible paths which were hidden beneath the blanket of leaves from years past. Legolas was explaining to them how the leaves of these trees —melon trees, or something rather; elves seemed to like melons— never fell until the new leaves grew in spring. That in itself was not so odd, but the trunks of the trees were extremely smooth, as if they were moulded out of metal instead. Logan rubbed his hand over the bark, feeling the texture. It felt warm and silky against the rough skin of his palm. Had the arrows which they had used to shoot him been made out of this wood?

They marched on. The elves footfalls were so soft that they would have been silent to human ears. The Wolverine heard them, of course, but that was because there was nothing occupying his mind, apart from the fact that Haldir had better apologize, or else he was going to be extremely sorry. Further ahead, he could hear another stream; this one was larger than the Nimrodel, and it had a stronger current. He sniffed; it smelled different too, although he could not place what the difference was.

The elves kept a slight distance between themselves and Logan, something which made the Wolverine extremely smug. His resurrection act had scared them; he could tell. More than once, he had caught one of the elves in grey staring at him in disgust and disbelief, only to look away when he met their gaze. He was like a dangerous and exotic animal; too dangerous to approach, and yet alluring in his own rough way because the elves simply did not understand him. Nothing healed that quickly, especially not from five arrow wounds, including a gut wound; yet, Logan Howlett had done exactly that. The wounds were not even visible anymore. All that remained of those wounds were the slightly bloodied holes in his clothes. Speaking of which, there was also a strange lack of blood. Logan held himself a little taller, and then curled his lip up just a little at one of the elves, causing him to tighten his grip on his bow. God, he did love provoking them, especially when they were not allowed to shoot him.

Night fell, and still, Haldir showed no signs of tiring; nor did he indicate that they were going to stop soon. As they marched, they were joined by another group of elves from the north. They were indistinguishable from one another, as far as Logan could tell. Their faces were all abnormally symmetrical and smooth. They all had dark braided hair and clear grey eyes, and they all wore the same uniform. Even worse, there weren't even names on those uniforms, or dog-tags, not that Logan would have been able to read those names. The leader of that band spoke to Haldir in urgent whispers, and while Logan could hear them, there was no point in eavesdropping, because they were using their own language again. However, Legolas could hear them as well, and unlike Logan, he understood perfectly. "Be on your guard," he murmured to his companions. "Orcs have been sighted on the northern border. And there is something else, but they are not talking about it in detail."

"Orcs? So bring it on," said Logan under his breath, so softly that only the elves could hear him.

"We would rather the orcs did not 'bring it on', as you say," said the elven prince. "That is why we are making for the Celebrant —the stream you hear— with all haste."

Every now and then, Logan glanced back at the hobbits to see how they were coping. He knew how hard this was for them, having just lost a friend and now being forced to march day and night; their legs were so much shorter that they had to move twice as fast just to keep up with everyone else. Frodo looked as if he was about to collapse. The poor hobbit was bent double, although Logan did not know why; after all, Sam was carrying a lot more luggage. Was Frodo ill? If so, why hadn't Aragorn noticed?

The stream finally came into view. It was much wider than the previous one. It foamed as it ran over the rocks. It looked deep too; not quite deep enough for white-water rafting, but deep enough to drown a hobbit, and it was flowing so quickly that it would not be difficult to wash them downstream. However, despite the fact that it was difficult to ford, there was not a single bridge in sight. Haldir did have a few coils of rope, but that seemed entirely inadequate.

"Do not touch the waters of the Celebrant, for you will catch your death of cold otherwise," said the elf.

"It would help if you had a bridge," muttered Logan.

"We do not have a bridge because that would enable our enemies to cross it," replied Haldir. His flinty eyes were trained on the Wolverine.

'Like me, Mister Priss?' thought the mutant, but he kept it to himself. The situation was tense enough as it was, and they did not need him to worsen it; that could wait until they were safe, and then he would make Haldir answer for his actions.

Haldir gave a sharp whistle. On the other side of the bank, an elf appeared out of thin air. Well, he had stepped out from the shadows, but it looked as if he had just teleported there. Whatever these elves were, they were good at remaining unseen. Haldir threw one end of the rope to the elf on the opposite bank, and that elf secured it tightly around the trunk of a sturdy tree. The marchwarden did the same thing on his side of the bank, and thus created a tightrope bridge. Logan half wondered if they were going to be given long poles for balance, not that one would do him much good. He'd probably break the rope. It looked so thin and flimsy. In fact, it looked more like string than rope.

Another two ropes was secured in exactly the same way, one at shoulder height, and one level with Logan's hip. So there were three tightrope bridges now, not that they did Logan any good.

"We elves can walk across, but mortals need something to steady them," said Haldir. He leapt onto the rope, and without so much as a wobble, walked across it as quickly and easily as if he had been on flat ground.

"How thoughtful of you, Haldir," said Legolas. He followed the other elf across, and then beckoned to his companions. It was the adventurous Pippin who went next, holding onto the higher rope with just one hand. However, he kept his eyes focused on the opposite bank, and did not look at the sides, for if he did, he would probably fall into the water. On the contrary, Sam clutched the rope with both hands so tightly that his knuckles were white. His face was white too. Merry crossed the rope bridge with some confidence, and he was followed by Aragorn, who seemed to have done this multiple times before. Boromir followed with relative ease. Gimli grumbled under his breath the entire way, but he made it to the other side safe and dry. That left Logan.

"Well, here goes," he said. The rope hadn't broken under Aragorn and Boromir's weight, so why should it not hold him too? He put one foot on it, gripping the rope which acted as the handrail tightly in his left hand, while holding out his right hand for balance. The rope felt strained, but it did not snap.

"Careful, Logan," admonished Aragorn.

"I know that," said the irritated Wolverine. "Stop distractin' me!"

"Your companion seems rather heavy," remarked Haldir.

"You try walkin' 'round with a metal skeleton and see if you can do pirouettes on tightropes, pretty boy!"

"Logan is simply a little frustrated," said Legolas smoothly, seeing that Haldir seemed to feel that he had been insulted, which he had. "He is a good man, of the blunt sort, and more often than not, his words come out before he can think about them."

"You sayin' that I have no cerebral activity?" demanded the outraged Wolverine, who had heard every word. It was bad enough that everyone was watching him walk the tightrope. He didn't need someone to say that he was stupid.

"Did you not say that you do not need distractions, Logan?" said Aragorn, eager to get this over and done with.

"Yeah, and that means Prince Charming and his pretty friend can talk in softer voices, or in their strange language!"

"You keep on shouting like that, and the goblins will locate us quite easily," said Legolas lightly. "I have no doubt that they will try and get across, and you will be forced to cut the rope, Logan. Just as well your claws do not affect your balance, but I doubt that even you will be immune to the effects of falling into the Celebrant."

"I'll tell you what my claws will affect once I finish this," muttered Logan. He tried to concentrate on putting one foot in front of another. The rope was creaking. Six more steps...five more...

As he reached the opposite bank, Pippin started clapping and cheering. He was joined by Gimli, who clapped Logan on the back —his lower back, which had the effect of almost putting him off balance. "Well done, lad!" he cried. "It seems that you are not as heavy and cumbersome as we had thought."

"Thanks, Gimli," said Logan with a grimace. Man, that dwarf could hit hard. The remaining elves crossed the rope bridge with the same grace as Legolas and Haldir. One of them coiled up the higher ropes as he crossed, effectively dismantling the handrails. Another elf remained on the far shore. He untied the rope, tossed that end to Haldir, and then merged with the shadows. It was an effective system, although Logan did not relish the thought of crossing another rope bridge any time in the near future, or the distant future, come to think of it.

"Now, this is the point where we have agreed that the dwarf and the clawed man should be blindfolded and bound," said Haldir.

Logan clenched his jaw and growled low down in his throat. Who did this prissy elf think he was? Logan was too furious to even speak. He was almost frothing in the mouth. His claws erupted from between his knuckles as he snarled, startling the elves so much that they almost got ready to shoot him again. However, Gimli saved him from becoming a porcupine again when he took the more sensible path and confronted the elves verbally.

"What in the name of Mahal does that mean?" demanded the dwarf. "I was not consulted and I tell you now that I will not be bound like a common criminal. What am I, a spy? No, I tell you. I come in honour, and I am as likely to betray you as Legolas here."

"While I can sympathize, Master Dwarf, I have no power to do anything about it," said Haldir. He really did sound quite contrite. "It is our law, and I have already bent it enough when I let you cross the Celebrant. In these dark days, we hardly trust our own kin, save for those who dwell in Rivendell."

"I can either go free, or I shall find my own way," said Gimli stubbornly. Logan would have said that he would join the dwarf if Aragorn had not spoken first.

"We cannot separate, Gimli," said the ranger. "Now that you have crossed the Celebrant, you cannot turn back. Please, trust me."

"I do not mean to slight you, Aragorn, but if these elves refuse to treat me with the respect that I deserve, then I shall be forced to return to my own kin, who know me as a noble warrior and shall treat me accordingly." Gimli planted his feet firmly on the ground, taking a fighting stance.

"A plague on the dwarves and their stiff necks!" said Legolas. "Can you not relinquish your pride for the sake of this company?"

"I refuse to be singled out, as does Logan, for I can see his stance on this matter quite clearly. Now, if we must be bound and blindfolded, then it is only fair that you share our condition."

"No, no, no," said Aragorn in exasperation. "This will not do at all. Haldir, if one of us is to go bound and blindfolded, or two of us, then we shall all go bound and blindfolded. None of the Fellowship should be singled out for such treatment." Well, at least Aragorn still had a sense of justice. Maybe Logan could delay his rampage of death for a while. He wouldn't mind so much if everyone was going to be treated that way, although he couldn't help but think that this was all completely ridiculous. They didn't trust him simply because he was a man with claws? That was simply irrational. If he'd been fluffy kitten, then he doubted that they would have minded if he had claws or not.

Legolas, however, was not happy with this decision. "This is outrageous!" he said. "I am an elf and a kinsman here! I will not be treated thus!"

"Who has the stiff neck now?" chided Aragorn. "Come, Legolas; we are all equals in the Fellowship, and since Haldir will not let us pass if Gimli and Logan are not bound and blindfolded, then it is only fair that we all go bound and blindfolded."

"Y'know, a blindfold and some rope does very little against my claws," commented Logan as one brave elf tied a piece of black fabric over his eyes; the others had refused to have anything to do with him.

"However, you will not be able to see where you are putting those claws," said the elf. "Hold out your hands if you will, milord."

"And Legolas thinks I am full of contradictions," said Logan. "Here you are, treatin' me as if I'm some thug, which I'm not, and callin' me a lord, which I'm also not."

"There is no harm in being polite," said the elf as he bound Logan's hands together in front of him. That rope felt like silk; however, when Logan tugged at it, it felt rather strong. Maybe these people had succeeded in harvesting spider silk? He'd heard that spider silk was extremely strong. "Perhaps that is a lesson you have yet to learn. We elves do not appreciate being called pretty, unless we are maidens, and there are no elf-maids here in this company."

"A pity, because I bet I'd prefer the company of elf maids to the company of elf boys."

"Then you cannot have known many maidens of our kind, because they can be even more irritating when they put their minds to it," said the elf. "I should know; I have three sisters."

Sisters? Now, that was interesting.

* * *

Despite the fact that they were bound and blindfolded, the elves actually took care to lead them over easy paths so that they would not trip over tree roots or fall into puddles. Of course, if they had tried any tricks on Logan, they would have found themselves on the wrong end of his claws. Being unable to see didn't actually bother Logan much, since he could hear and smell everything quite clearly. There was the earthy scent of a forest, of course, but each forest had its own unique smell, and the air in this one was particularly fresh and wholesome; he could not really place what it was that made it smell this way, and decided that it had something to do with elves and strange trees which are gold and silver instead of green and brown. The cold breeze brushed against his skin, bringing the scent of impending rain. It didn't bother him in the least, for the Wolverine was used to the elements. He might complain about the harsh conditions of the wild, but he could survive them just fine. Surely the hobbits were hungry by now; he certainly was. Then he remembered how little sustenance Legolas needed. Dear God, not that he believed there was a god, the elves weren't going to just make them march on indefinitely until they reached their destination, were they?

A voice called out. It sounded friendly, although that in itself was pure conjecture. Logan was not very good at reading people, especially not when he couldn't see them or understand what they were saying. However, it must have been a friendly message, for moments later, Logan's bonds were untied, and his blindfold was removed. He blinked a couple of times. They were in a clearing now, and surrounded by silver trunks of dormant trees. Ladders hung down from the boughs, and as he looked up, he saw...tree houses? This was surreal!

Haldir slowly approached Logan, and then he bowed in a most courtly fashion. "Forgive me," he said. Feeling as if he should respond to that politely, the Wolverine managed an awkward bow himself, although he felt as clumsy as a bear in a glassblower's workshop. "There has been some misunderstanding, and I apologize for shooting you without asking questions first. It was rude of me."

"Apology accepted," said Logan. Well, maybe he won't have to teach Haldir a lesson after all.

"I have to admit that I was quite alarmed when I saw your claws," said Haldir. He turned to the other members of the Fellowship. "Lately, there have been reports of a strange clawed man roaming the borders of Lothlorien. I have been fortunate enough not to encounter him, but one of my friends was wounded by him."

"Another clawed man?" said Boromir. "I had not thought that there was more than one."

* * *

Much to Logan's great discomfort, they spent the night in the trees. At least they were on tree houses, instead of just sleeping on branches like monkeys. Wolverines belonged on ground level, and this one was no exception. He was so afraid of falling out; not only would that hurt, but if there was someone below him...well, he would feel very sorry for whoever that might be. He rolled over onto his other side again and tried to clear his mind, but Haldir's news about another clawed man kept on replaying itself over and over again inside his head. Logan knew of only one other clawed man, but it was not possible. He had thrown Sabretooth down the Statue of Liberty himself. Surely the other mutant did not have his regenerating powers. He had been dangerous enough without them, as it were.

A rustle caught his attention, and he sat up. The wood creaked beneath him. He was vaguely aware of an elf gesticulating at him and saying something in hushed whispers, but his focus was on that one sound; what had it been? There was a low growl —not an orc's, because orcs did not sound like this. It was more like a lion's growl just before it pounced on some poor unsuspecting animal. Or, it could be...No, it could not be. Logan didn't believe in coincidences, and him and Sabretooth meeting up in Middle Earth was just too big of a coincidence for him to accept.

The Wolverine pointed downwards, indicating that the elves should roll out the rope ladder for him. The elven guard on his tah-lahn shook his head, clearly reluctant to let Logan go off to pursue his own agenda without first alerting his superior. However, the Wolverine was insistent, and he made it very clear that if the elves did not roll out the ladder, then he would damn well jump off this wooden platform if that was what it took. That took a lot of gesturing, for this was not the same guard who had led him when he had been blindfolded, and he did not know how to speak what was known as Common Tongue —Logan was still of the opinion that it was English. The elven guard did concede at the end, although he put his finger to his lips as Logan climbed down, warning him. That gesture was universal. Logan gave him the thumbs-up sign to show that he understood, but it only confused the elf.

There was no one on the ground, and whatever had made that rustle was now gone. Logan sniffed, catching a whiff of unwashed body and damp fur. An animal, or something more sinister? He couldn't tell, and he didn't really want to wander off alone into a strange forest to search for something which might not even exist. He circled the clearing, looking for signs and hints. Apart from the faint scent, there was nothing. Whatever it had been, it had not been anywhere near the clearing.

Logan climbed back up the rope ladder. The elven guard raised a questioning eyebrow at him. He shook his head, and then wrapped his blanket around himself again. Since there was nothing out there which posed an immediate threat, he supposed that it would be a good idea to get some rest, if he could.

* * *

A figure crouched in the shadows. His back was hunched, and his limbs were bent, but that was only because he was waiting, ready to pounce. His muscles were tense, and as he shifted just a little, he could feel the unnatural strength in them. He grinned, and sharp teeth gleamed in the pale moonlight. Curved claws emerged from the tips of his fingers. They dug into the earth, creating deep grooves. Would that it was flesh instead of soil.

'Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy,' he thought. 'You might have the adamantium, but I'm your older brother, and you can never beat me.'

* * *

**A/N: **I know the chapter is a little shorter than usual, but this was truly the best place to stop. I'd like to deliver the full impact of Logan's meeting with Galadriel in the next chapter. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it.


	20. The Golden Wood

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Vballmania23: **I'm glad you enjoyed it.

**Violet: **Logan's brother is strictly movie-verse. He's in the new Wolverine movie. I hope I've put enough background there for you to follow it. If not, tell me, and I'll try to make it a bit easier to understand.

**R-Cleberg: **Humour is important to me too. I'm glad to be able to make you laugh.

**Galinda:** I'm mostly going by movie-verse Wolverine, as I haven't read the comics, but I get information from reviewers and my own research about other aspects of Logan which are only mentioned in the comics, so I suppose he would be a mix of both, although he'll be more movie-verse than comic-verse.

**Darcy: **Logan and Galadriel are definitely going to make an impression on each other; maybe not in this chapter, but they will.

_Thank you to all those who reviewed. _

Warning: Spoilers for _X-Men Origins: Wolverine_

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything that you recognize.**

**Chapter 20: The Golden Wood**

His name was Victor Creed, but it was a name which no one truly knew. To most people, he was Sabretooth, a most dangerous mutant. Of course, no one here knew that either, save for one wizard. In a way, this anonymity suited him well, for he was free to do as he pleased, without anyone taking precautions to obstruct his way. This world didn't know about mutants, and there were enough strange things here for him to be able to blend in relatively easily. For how long had he been here now? He had lost track of the time, not that it had mattered much; he had hardly aged. Perhaps his hair was longer, but who cared about that? Certainly not him. It must have been at least six years since he'd been thrown down from the Statue of Liberty. It stung that he had been defeated by his younger brother; to make things worse, Jimmy had not even remembered him. Victor did not like being forgotten, almost as much as he disliked needing to work for someone, which was exactly why he was here.

When Jimmy had thrown him down the Statue of Liberty and into a boat —destroying it in the process— something had taken him to this strange place. He couldn't remember much about it, except that he had felt the swirling water currents dragging him downwards one moment, and then rough shingle beneath him in the next. And it was just his luck that he had been found by a charismatic and authoritative old man who had taken him under his wing. Saruman. Victor's lips curled back in a silent snarl at the thought of that name. He hated working for others; his experience with a Colonel Stryker and one Erik Lensherr had taught him that people —human or mutant— used one another in order to achieve their own means. He did not like being someone's tool or lapdog. He was the Sabretooth; he had more dignity than that. It was not as if he needed those people.

But, back to the problem at hand; Jimmy was here. What he was doing here, Victor had no idea, but he and his brother did not have the best of relationships. Plus, Jimmy did not even remember that he had a brother; the only thing the Wolverine would remember would be how Victor had tried to kill him. And Victor had tried to kill him. In fact, he'd been trying for a while to get back at his brother for abandoning him just like that in Nigeria, walking away without even a glance backwards, as if he had forgotten how Victor had taken care of him when they had both been children and on the run. Jimmy's abandonment had hurt him more than he had cared to admit. If there was one person in the world whom Victor loved, then it was his brother. He didn't understand Jimmy, not one bit, but that didn't matter. Jimmy —or Logan, as he now called himself— was his only family, and brothers never turned their backs on each other. To do so was the ultimate betrayal.

Dried leaves crackled beneath his feet as he made his way towards edges of the Golden Wood. He had overheard the name one day, and it suited this place. However, a peaceful life in the wilderness wasn't exactly what he wanted. There had been a reason why he had partaken in every major war he could; Victor enjoyed the excitement and power he felt when he was out there taking life. Deep down inside him, he knew that it was not right to enjoy it, but he could not help that. He was a born killer, as was Jimmy, and there was nothing that either of them could do about it. It was the way they were, psychologically and physically. Why else would God, if He did exist, give them claws? The world was harsh. It was kill, or be killed, and Victor would much rather do the killing. At least then he was in control. He hated not being in control, and that was why he had been so frustrated when Jimmy had turned his back on him. He had lost control over his brother, and he had spent years trying to get it back, without any success.

Well, perhaps this was about to change. Jimmy was here now, and sooner or later, they were going to have to meet. Both being strangers to this place, their alien status would surely draw them together. Victor wanted his brother back on his side; if not, well, then he would suffer no opposition. There could only ever be one top predator in the ecosystem.

* * *

A city built in trees? Now, that was something entirely new, and Logan was not certain that he approved. Those staircases which wound around the silver trunks of the trees looked pretty flimsy, and living in a tree house was not his idea of a good time. They spiralled high into the treetops, and he could see elves gliding over them as if there was nothing wrong with living like squirrels. Of course, he might get used to it if he stayed here for a prolonged period of time, but this was only his first day in the city, if this cluster of elaborate tree houses could be called a city. So far, he could see nothing which indicated that this was a metropolitan area. Where were all the tradesmen and the commercial buildings? In fact, since tree houses were not buildings in his book, it didn't look as if this place had any buildings at all.

"It is magnificent, is it not?" murmured Legolas to him.

"If you're a chipmunk, then yeah," said Logan. "I don't really wanna fall out of another tree and embarrass myself again." Legolas smirked at him; it was a slight smirk which almost looked regal, but a smirk was a smirk. Logan simply pressed his lips together in a tight line. He doubted that the elves would appreciate it if he killed one of their own there and then, and this one was a prince, to top it all.

Haldir led them to the tallest tree and up the spiralling staircase which wound around it like the lithe body of a snake. The rails were intricately carved with images of leaves and flowers, but Logan wasn't really paying much attention to that. He was more interested in whether the flimsy-looking wooden steps would actually hold him. Some of them creaked beneath him as he set his heavy booted feet on them. He winced as he heard the sound, expecting to fall through any minute. God, couldn't they make something a little more structurally sound? However, much to his surprise —and relief— the wood was extremely strong; it held.

They came to an oval platform mounted in the branches, several storeys above ground, with a house built on it, no less. That had to be the fanciest tree house he had ever seen. The wooden supports were carved with depictions of curling vines and leaves with serrated edges. Wooden birds perched on the roof, some preening, others just getting ready to spread their wings to take flight, and all were perpetually frozen in that moment in time. How old was this city exactly, anyway? Surely wood didn't keep for that long, unless the elves were constantly making repairs, or they had some magic to preserve the wood. It made Logan nervous thinking about just what would happen if there was ever an earthquake.

Elaborate lanterns shaped like ships hung from the branches, making it almost as bright as daytime. The weird thing was that despite the fact the lanterns had flames within them, the light which they emitted was decidedly cool; In fact, it looked silver. Apparently, these elves liked silver a lot. "Logan," murmured Aragorn. "I want to remind you that Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn are important elves, and you should keep in mind that you need to think before you speak. They deserve your respect."

"They'll get it when they earn it," murmured the Wolverine. "I don't dole out respect to people just because they're royalty or somethin'."

"Lady Galadriel and Lord Celeborn are Lady Arwen's grandparents," Legolas informed him. "Surely their relation to Lord Elrond, who has been extraordinarily kind to you, is enough to at least earn some respect from you."

"Well, that does change things a bit," said Logan. Arwen's grandparents? This should be interesting. They must have good genes if they had contributed to the creation of the magnificent woman who was engaged to Aragorn. No wonder the ranger wanted him to be respectful. Even if he didn't like them, he would do it for the ranger's sake. He was a friend, after all, and Logan was always ready to make sacrifices for friends.

Two figures seemingly emerged from house. At first, Logan could not see their faces; only their silhouettes. They were tall and slender, like all elves. The two figures drew closer, and he could make out the features on their faces, although he was only interested in one of those faces. And that figure...

Logan let out a low whistle of appreciation, loud enough for everyone to hear. That was one hell of a granny. No, he wasn't interested in _that_ manner, because she was much too regal for the likes of the Wolverine, but she was impressive. Then he realized what he had done, for Legolas had dug his elbow sharply into his stomach and everyone was staring at him, some in disbelief, and others in outrage. The lady's husband —Logan assumed that he was her husband— was giving him the iciest glare he had ever seen, and Iceman himself had glared at Logan once or twice before. Maybe it hadn't been the best idea to whistle at a lady who was the mother-in-law of one of the most prestigious people in this world. Wait... if this was Arwen's grandmother, then she was Elladan and Elrohir's grandmother too. He'd whistled at his friends' _grandmother_. That was disturbing. Everyone started talking at once; Aragorn, Legolas, Haldir, the lady's husband, the other courtier—everyone, except the lady herself, and Logan, of course, who had nothing to say for himself.

Galadriel merely smiled at him, not at all offended. _I suppose I was not what you were expecting, Logan Howlett_, said a low melodious voice inside his head. He looked around in bewilderment. No one had spoken; were there more telepathic people here? He looked again at Galadriel, and she gave him the slightest of nods. So it was her. She was the one who was pulling the Chuck act on him; beautiful and talented...and a grandmother. It didn't really go well with his idea of grandmothers. She gave him another slight nod. So she'd heard that as well? Suddenly, he felt naked. No, this was worse than being naked; he was fine with physical nakedness, since he knew there was absolutely nothing wrong with his body. However, he really did not like it when total strangers, especially immortal hot grandmothers, read his mind. Oh wait, had she heard that too? She looked as if she was trying to keep herself from laughing; obviously, hearing his thoughts while listening to Aragorn and Legolas apologizing for his behaviour was quite amusing.

Galadriel held up a hand to stop the apologies. "No offence was meant, and none of taken," she said. Her gaze swept over the entire Fellowship and none of them could hold her gaze for long, save for Legolas and Aragorn. Was she speaking inside their heads too? Logan did not know, and he was pretty sure that if they wanted to share, they were going to share it. If they didn't want to share, well, that was none of his business.

The lord of the city —_Celeborn_, Logan reminded himself— stepped forward. He was dressed entirely in white, and although someone had just whistled at his wife, he looked remarkably composed. Was it something in the elven genome which enabled them to be so calm all the time? Legolas nudged Logan again and indicated that he should bow.

The elf-lord greeted them in his own tongue. Logan didn't understand a single word, but he could hear the reverence in Aragorn and Legolas' replies. Their melodic cadences made it sound as if they were singing instead of just talking. Quite disconcerting really, although he was more disconcerted by the fact that someone was reading his mind. He was aware of it, although the average person probably wouldn't. He didn't exactly know how to describe the feeling. Uncomfortable, yes, and it made him very aware of what he was thinking, as if he was the one who was looking at his thoughts from the outside.

They were each welcomed in turn, even Logan; it surprised him, seeing as the elves of Lothlorien didn't know anything about him. Heck, he wasn't even really supposed to be here, since he wasn't part of the Fellowship, at least not officially. Even more surprising was how the elf lord could even be courteous to him after he had whistled at his wife. If Logan had been in Celeborn's place, he would have punched out the man who'd whistled at _his_ wife. He was what one would term the possessive kind.

Despite having shot Logan, blindfolded the Fellowship, and everything else, the elves of Lothlorien were, in fact, quite hospitable. They had prepared a feast for the Fellowship on a terrace which was supported only by the branches of the tree it was situated in. The canopy of golden leaves served as a roof of sorts. The meal was laid out on low tables in front of each person, and despite its elaborate appearance, the food was actually quite simple, consisting of a variety of leaves, flowers —Logan deemed that this was a salad of sorts— bread and roasted pheasant stuffed with herbs. He went straight for the bird; salad was the food of girls who were on diets, and Logan was neither female nor dieting.

However, he, Merry and Pippin seemed to be the only ones with any sort of appetite, despite the fact that none of the Fellowship had eaten much over the past day or so. Frodo had hardly touched his food, and Sam was too worried about his master to be able to enjoy his own meal. Boromir was toying with his in sombre silence, as was Gimli, and Aragorn and Legolas were trying to explain what had happened in Moria to their hosts. They described how the mines had been overrun with goblins. Legolas' voice faltered as he came to the part where had Gandalf stood against the 'bell-rock' of More Goth —a very strange name for a demon, although it might have been considered gothic by some— on the narrow stone bridge. Aragorn continued on with the narrative, although he, too, hesitated when he told their hosts of how the wizard had fallen down into the depths of Moria along with his foe.

"This is ill news indeed," said Celeborn, and in his fair face there was great distress. "I had hoped that I would be able to speak with Mithrandir, for there are many matters which require his wisdom. Gandalf has fallen into folly, to have gone needlessly into the net of Moria."

"Needless were none of Gandalf's deeds in life," said Galadriel softly. "None knows of his true purpose, and I suppose it is not for us to know. We cannot know the intentions of Eru, not even you, Celeborn, as wise as you are."

Celeborn was silent as he absorbed his wife's words. He seemed to accept them, or else he just didn't want to put on a show for his guests. Either way, he did not rebut her. Instead, he turned his attention back to Aragorn. "What becomes of this Company now?" he asked.

"I am not certain, Lord Celeborn," said Aragorn softly. "I had hoped that you and the Lady Galadriel would give me counsel."

Galadriel seemed pensive, as if she knew something which the others did not. Her husband turned to her, but she did not speak. She simply sat there, as regal and ethereal as any goddess —not that Logan had ever seen a goddess, and he probably would never see one, since he was atheist. He heard her voice inside his mind again, reminding him that she could hear everything he was thinking. Logan cleared his thoughts and focused on his food. Somehow, he did not trust her. Then again, he found it difficult to trust those who played with his head. Usually, they meant him harm.

"Come," she said. "You are safe now within the city, and do not trouble yourselves with the fate of this company for the meantime, for you are tired, and weighed down by much sorrow. Tonight, you shall sleep in peace."

* * *

A pavilion had been set up on the ground for those of the Fellowship who felt uncomfortable about sleeping in trees, which was basically everyone with the exception of Legolas. It wasn't much of a shelter, but if there was no storm during their stay in Lothlorien, it would do just fine. Maybe it was the only thing that would do fine. The hobbits were completely silent. Pippin's attempts at striking up a conversation with his cousins had failed, and now he was simply sitting on his mattress and staring at Frodo with great worry. At least Merry was smoking, which was quite a normal activity for a hobbit.

The elves had set up soft couches beneath the canopy of the pavilion, and they had provided the Fellowship with enough pillows to drown in. Logan lay back on his couch and placed his hands behind his head, letting his muscles rest. He was tired and yet, he could not sleep, for something was making him restless. Whenever he closed his eyes, he could see the way Gandalf had looked as he had fallen into that dark chasm. He saw the flame which surrounded that bell-rock thing which had chased them. He fancied he could even smell the smoke. Now, of course, that was all simply part of his imagination, and he knew better than to let that get the better of him. It was better to stay grounded in reality. Now that their leader was gone, what would they do? Who would lead them on to Mordor?

He heard a sigh. It was Boromir. The man from Gondor looked extremely troubled; his face was haggard from fatigue and worry. He kept on rubbing his face with his hand and massaging his temples. Logan sat up. "You all right?" he asked.

"I am well, Logan," replied Boromir. "Simply tired."

"Then get some rest," suggested Logan. "It won't do for you to collapse or something."

"I cannot rest," said Boromir. He looked up at Logan, and for the first time, the Wolverine realized how pale he looked. Before, his pallor had been masked by the mask of grime on his face, but now, his skin looked almost waxy, and there were dark circles beneath his eyes.

"Have you been sleeping at all in the past few days?" asked Logan. No one had gotten much sleep, but even he had snatched a couple of hours of rest, despite having kept a lookout for trouble most of the time. Boromir shook his head.

"There was too much on my mind," he said. Logan waited for him to elaborate, but when he didn't, he figured out that the man from Gondor wanted to keep those worries private, which was understandable.

"Well, you should sleep a bit," the mutant advised. "It's safe here, or so Strider says, and I trust him."

"I cannot rest here," said Boromir. "I do not trust the elven lady and her designs." He looked away, as if he was afraid. He looked around him to make sure that no one was watching, and then went over to sit beside Logan so that he might whisper. "I heard her voice inside my head."

"So did I," said Logan. "And while I don't trust her, if she wanted to hurt us, she would have done it ages ago. Trust me, mind-readers are very powerful; I've met a couple."

"It is not natural," said Boromir.

"Dude, I'm not natural, and you're not scared of me."

"I do not hear you inside my head, Logan. Your claws do not frighten me because I can see them and I know exactly how you use them. _She_ told me of the fall of Gondor, Logan. Do you know how it feels when someone tells you of your doom before you even know it?"

"I guess it can be kinda freaky," said Logan.

"And she knew just exactly what I was thinking. I tell you, I felt exposed and vulnerable, Logan, as if I was standing naked on the battlefield. And no, before you speculate, I have _not_ done that before."

"Standin' naked in a battlefield is kinda stupid," said Logan. "I haven't done that either, although I did get caught half-naked in an ambush inside a school. Believe me, that was one bad situation, but I got through it." Before Boromir could think of a response for that, Logan clapped the other man on the shoulder. "Well, whether she's readin' your mind or not, you've still gotta sleep. If you go without sleep for ten days or something, you die, and that's a fact."

"Someone actually tried to go for ten days without sleep?"

"Probably, or else we wouldn't have the results, would we? Now, don't you go tryin' to prove that, 'kay?"

Boromir gave him a ghost of a smile. "Sometimes, Logan, I wonder if I will ever cease to be surprised by you," he said.

"I hope you never do," said Logan. "I like having the element of surprise on my side." He glanced around at his other friends. The sombre mood was getting to him. The elvish requiem which the elves of Lothlorien were singing didn't help matters. Those elves really knew how to convey emotion through music. The point was that the emotion they were conveying only enhanced the grief which they all felt, and it was not conducive to spiritual healing. At least, it wasn't conducive to Logan's spiritual healing. It hurt to lose someone dear to you, yes, but the only thing a person could do about it was try and move on and live life the way your lost friend would have wanted you to. And he knew that Gandalf would not have wanted them to despair. Logan had met a couple of people who were like the wizard. Charles Xavier was one of them. Gandalf would have wanted them to complete their quest to save the world, and they could not possibly do that if they were all depressed and dispirited. Now, if only there was something that Logan could do to make those poor hobbits see that.

"They sing a lament for Gandalf," said Legolas, as if they had not all realized that by now. The elf was carrying a pitcher of wine. He poured himself some, but did not drink from it. Instead, he simply stood there, as if he was part of the decorations. Logan had to admit that the elven prince would make a wonderful statue of some sort. Heck, the Italians would have loved something like him in one of their plazas, except they would have wanted him naked and carved out of marble.

"What are they saying about him?" asked Merry. "I bet you they don't say anything about his fireworks."

Legolas shook his head. "I cannot bear to tell you what they say," he said. "For me, this is a matter for tears, and not song. Perhaps someday in the future, I will tell you, but not today."

"Still, I think someone should say something about his fireworks," said Merry. He turned to Logan and Boromir. "You won't have seen anything like them, I'll bet. They are the most amazing things. Once, Pippin and I stole one and set it off, and it was a huge dragon, so lifelike that you would almost expect it to breathe fire."

"It did breathe fire," said Pippin. "It just wasn't real dragon fire, that's all."

Together, the two youngest hobbits regaled the others with tales about the times when Gandalf had visited the Shire. Legolas added some of his own tales about the wizard. Later on, Aragorn joined them in reminiscing about Gandalf. Tears were shed. There was quite some laughter, especially when Pippin told them about how Gandalf would catch him in the middle of playing pranks, usually on Frodo's orders. In Logan's mind, this would be the way the wizard would have wanted them to remember him.

* * *

Morning came, and the first thing that Logan saw was the sunlight reflecting and refracting in the water of the nearby fountain as it bubbled merrily, creating a million rainbows. He felt refreshed, although his growling stomach was indicating that there was something missing. He got up and stretched. No one else was up yet, which was a first. Usually, someone had to wake him up. Well, since they were all asleep, he thought that he might as well explore the place and perhaps look for some food. There had to be a bar of some sort around here, right? It was a city after all. Maybe it was a little too early to go and get stoned, not that he ever got stoned, but it would be a good cultural experience.

He didn't bother with locating his mud-caked boots. They needed cleaning anyway, and the ground was soft enough here for him to go without shoes. Sometimes, he appreciated the luxury of being able to do that. It meant that he wasn't fighting a battle or doing something just as difficult. As much as he liked action, the Wolverine needed to relax from time to time. Besides, he felt that he'd seen quite enough action in Moria to last him for a month or so.

The morning air was crisp and cool, and it smelled moist, although that could only be expected, as there was still dew on the ground. It would evaporate later on, when the sun was higher up. Right now, it was on such a slant that it was shining directly into Logan's eyes, making it difficult for him to see where he was going, and he almost walked straight into someone.

The two people did an awkward dance, each trying to get out of the other's way and not really succeeding at all. Finally, they both stopped, and Logan registered just who, or what, he had bumped into. She was beautiful. Not as beautiful as Arwen or her mind-reading grandmother, but that was no surprise. Logan could not imagine anything more beautiful than that lucky ranger's bride-to-be. The elven maiden smiled at him and dipped a curtsey. "Pardon me, milord," she said. She carried a large covered basket, and at her hip was a silver flask, considerably larger than the one which Elrohir had given to Logan.

"No, no," said Logan, bowing awkwardly. Man, he really needed to get someone to teach him how to do it properly. Not knowing how to bow in this place was like being handicapped. "Pardon _me_, ma'am." He could not stop staring at her. Those clear grey eyes, that long dark hair, that pale smooth skin. How could anything be so perfect? Sure, he'd seen Legolas up close, but the elven prince was male, and Logan hadn't been interested in him at all. This was different.

The elf-maid smiled and lowered her eyes. "Milord, if you will excuse me," she said.

"Oh, right," said Logan, stepping out of the way. "I'm new here, by the way. Just got here yesterday."

"Yes, I know," she said. "You came with Prince Legolas' company, did you not?"

"Yeah, yeah," said Logan. "I did. The name's Logan, by the way."

"Well met, Master Logan," said the woman. Her eyes were twinkling, and two soft dimples appeared in her cheeks as she tried not to laugh. "I am Sidhien, daughter of Maethor and sister of Berenon. I believe you will have met my brother."

"I can't say I remember him," said Logan, "but I will remember you." She cocked her head in amusement.

"Is that so?" she said. "Forgive me, milord, for this might be out of my place to say, but you are being awfully bold. Are you certain that this is appropriate with a woman whom you have just met?"

"Let's just say it's not in me to be meek and shy," said Logan. He grinned. "I'm straightforward."

"I daresay you are very much so," said the woman. "Now, I really must be going. Your companions will want breakfast when they wake."

"Why don't you let me walk you there?" suggested Logan, mustering all the charm that he possessed.

"That is very kind of you, milord; very kind indeed," said Sidhien.

"Here, let me take that basket," said Logan. "It looks kinda heavy."

"On the contrary, it is no burden, and it is not proper for a guest such as yourself to do my tasks for me," said Sidhien.

"As a gentleman, I insist on helping," said Logan. Now, he knew he was no gentleman, but for this lady, he was willing to make an attempt to be one. She adamantly refused, and in the end, he decided not to force her. He didn't want to sound desperate. The two of them walked in companionable silence for a while, keeping a proper distance, but silence was not what Logan was looking for. "So, your brother...what was his name again?"

"Berenon," she replied. "He told me quite a bit about you. You are the clawed one whom they shot, are you not?"

"Yeah, I am," said Logan. He snorted. "Not that those arrows would have done anything to stop me if I had wanted to kill them all, y'know."

"I am very glad that someone did stop you then, for as irritating as my brother can be, I do love him dearly," said Sidhien. "He said he was the one who bound you and led you, since no one else was willing to do so."

"Oh, so he was _that_ elf," said Logan. "I remember now. I liked him. He actually had a sense of humour, unlike most of his other friends."

"Are you always so frank with people you have just met, Master Logan?"

"I'm actually holding myself back. Why? Am I offending you or somethin'?"

"No; in fact, I find it amusing and quite refreshing. I know nothing of the ways of men, having lived in Lothlorien all my life. We seldom have them passing through our domain. I have only met Lord Aragorn briefly, and he is well-versed in elvish customs."

They were nearing the pavilion, and Logan could hear sounds of activity, and Pippin's complaints about his hunger. He wasn't sure if he wanted them to know what he had been up to this morning, considering how badly Merry and Pippin teased poor Sam about his sweetheart. Logan had had quite enough teasing during this journey, and besides, he liked to keep this sort of thing private.

"Y'know, milady, I really should take that basket to them," said Logan. "I mean, it would be awkward if you walked in on all those guys gettin' dressed or somethin'."

Sidhien could not help it. She laughed, and it was one of the most beautiful sounds that Logan had ever heard. If he had to compare it to something, then he would say that it sounded like the ringing of a thousand cathedral bells, which wasn't even close, but he really could not be bothered thinking of a better comparison. "Well, when you put it that way..." she said. The woman handed him the basket and the flask before curtseying yet again. "Good day, Master Logan. I hope you and your companions enjoy your meal."

"Wait!" called Logan as she turned. "Can I see you again, maybe later today?"

"You may," she said. "I shall come back for the basket and the flask in an hour, and you can meet me right here, beneath this tree, with both those things."

* * *

"Breakfast!" cried Pippin joyfully when he saw Logan coming towards the pavilion with a large basket and a flask. "Thank goodness! I am starving."

"So am I," said Merry. "Where've you been, Logan? You were gone for a while."

Logan held up the basket. "Do you even need to ask?" he said. "I was getting breakfast."

"Truly?" asked Legolas. "I distinctly remember hearing you converse with someone, and I believe that our hosts would supply us with breakfast instead of requiring that we search for it ourselves." He took the basket for Logan and set it on the low table at the centre of the pavilion. The hobbits crowded around the basket, and a merry meal commenced, during which Logan said very little. He was too busy thinking about Sidhien. He really did like that woman, and he wanted her to like him too. She might find his rashness amusing now, but he had heard that it got tiresome after a while. Women like Sidhien weren't like the women Logan had known back in the States. She wasn't forward and liberal. In fact, he was pretty sure that elves did not go on dates and have multiple sexual partners throughout their long lives. They were very old fashioned. Heck, he might have to prove his worth to her before she would even consider him as anything more than just an acquaintance.

Making sure that no one was watching him too closely, he tapped Boromir on the shoulder and indicated that he should come away from the group. The man from Gondor had taken Logan's advice and slept a bit, and he looked much better for it. "What is it, Logan?" he asked. "You are not going to hound me about my sleeping habits, are you?"

"Nope," said Logan. "Listen. I need help."

"With what?" asked Boromir. "You have not insulted another elf, have you?"

"No, I haven't," said Logan. "Look, I need help with courtship customs, or whatever it is that you call them."

"Courtship?!" Boromir was completely astounded. In fact, he was so surprised that he almost dropped the piece of bread he was holding.

"Shh!" hissed Logan, but it was too late. The entire Fellowship had overheard.

"What is this about courtship, Logan?" asked Aragorn. Logan was reluctant to tell everyone, but they were quite adamant, and they mined the story out of him bit by bit, not that there was much to tell.

"You have made up your mind awfully quickly," said Legolas. "How can you be certain about your feelings?"

"I know what I'm feelin', all right?" said Logan. "It was like this with Jean, and I still love her. Heck, I'll never stop loving her, but it doesn't mean I can't move on and fall in love again."

"You are in love already?" said Aragorn.

"Not exactly, but I like her, and not just as a friend," said Logan. "Come on. You can't talk. Elrohir told me that you fell in love with Arwen after you saw her. At least I had a conversation."

"I had a conversation with Arwen too," said the ranger defensively.

In the end, all of them agreed to help. It was actually quite a relief to Aragorn that Logan was willing to learn some basic etiquette. He probably would never be as graceful and courteous as Boromir, or even Gimli, but if he knew a thing or two about basic social rules, then at least he would not insult every single person he met, which would make his stay here a lot smoother.

"Firstly," he said. "We need to work on greetings."

"It can't be that hard to say 'hello'," said Logan.

"You cannot say 'hello' to a king," said the ranger.

"And when am I going to talk to a king?" demanded Logan.

* * *

**A/N: **Due to exams, **I will not be updating on 19 June**. Instead, that week's update will probably be on the 20th. Sorry to keep you waiting. Anyway, I haven't managed to get to the mirror of Galadriel yet, but I will get there next week. I got sidetracked, as you can probably see. Any suggestions and advice will be most welcome. This is my first attempt at non-canon romance, and I'm not sure if it will come to anything. Special thanks to **ktjinks** who suggested that I add Sabretooth to the mix.


	21. Through the Years

****

It's an Odd Coincidence

**Vballmania23: **Logan's in for a surprise when he finds out what his friend really is. I'm not sure what exactly Sabretooth was doing either. We'll have to ask him ;).

**Violet: **No worries :). I tend to explain characters anyway, because it makes them more real for me so I can write them. I'm not sure how Logan is going to court an elf —I'm not sure if he'll even be successful, but we'll just have to see.

**R-Cleberg: **Logan needs a love interest of some sort :P. Knowing Legolas, he'll probably tease the poor Wolverine whether he is successful or not.

**CameoCorbin:** Logan and Sidhien, to me, has a very 'Beauty and the Beast' feel, if you know what I mean.

**Darcy: **I usually don't like revealing too much about later chapters (mainly because things tend to change and I can't pin down what is going to happen) but I can confidently say that Sidhien _won't_ be joining the Fellowship. For one, Logan wouldn't let a lady come along on a suicidal quest, and neither would the rest of the Fellowship. They are, all of them, chivalrous males.

_Thank you for all the kind reviews and good wishes. _

WARNING: Major spoilers for _X-Men Origins: Wolverine_

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything that you recognize. **

**Chapter 21: Through the Years**

Logan clearly knew very little of the history of Middle Earth, after all this time. Then again, Aragorn had never expected him to become scholarly in the mere space of a few months. In fact, he never expected his rough friend of six claws to ever become a scholar. Men like Logan never became very learned. If he could somehow convey the importance of etiquette to the man, then he would consider himself to be a very successful teacher. "You never know who you might encounter, Logan," he was saying patiently to the other man.

"Look, even if I do meet a king, you're the spokesman here, not me," protested Logan. "You or Legolas. Me, I just stand in the background—"

"And whistle at the Lady of the Golden Wood," interrupted Legolas, smirking. "Come, Logan. You address lords and princes every day, whether you realize it or not."

"Give me one example," said Logan. Obviously, he had spoken without thinking, as he often did. He was an honest man, but sometimes being too honest was a flaw.

"Me," said the elven prince. His grin widened. "And even though I have become more or less acquainted with your strange ways, it still startles me a little when you address me as 'pal' or 'dood'—"

"It's 'dude', man," said Logan, rolling his eyes. "Fine, fine. I know _one_ condescending sarcastic royal, and he just likes to laugh at me. It's not as if I need to be polite. In fact, if I were polite, then he'd be bored because he'd have no one to make fun of."

"I am of the aristocracy too, Logan," said Boromir, shaking his head. "You seem to forget that."

"That's because you're not stuck-up," said Logan. "You're a man, not like those pansies who sit in open top cars wearing suits and waving half-heartedly at their fans and think that they're better than everyone else because they can add 'Lord' before their names."

Aragorn vaguely recalled that a 'kar' was some form of transport in Logan's world, much like a carriage, but without horses, and that a 'pansy' referred to a man who did not behave as such, and not the flower, at least not in this context. "Noblemen like that do exist," he said, "but even so, it would only make you look bad if you treat them with disdain."

"As I said, if you want my respect, you've gotta earn it. Otherwise, you don't get it," said Logan. "And that ain't gonna change, not even if I meet a king or an emperor."

"May I be so bold as to inject my own opinion?" said Legolas. He did not wait for an answer, for he was so bold. "From my experience, elf-maids prefer men who can act as if they are civilized and therefore, it would benefit you to learn how to greet people properly, according to their rank." He was trying not to laugh at Logan's indignant expression. This was turning out to be a most interesting exercise. He wasn't sure if they were going to succeed in training Logan to be a courtier, and he could just imagine the way his father would react should he ever meet the Wolverine. It made for an amusing image. He heard a few muttered curses, and shook his head. They really needed to drastically alter Logan's vocabulary if he was going to successfully court a lady. Then again, women were strange creatures; perhaps they found his roughness endearing in ways which men could not comprehend.

* * *

He had never thought that proper social conduct could be so confusing. There were infinitely more rules here than back in the States, and different sets of etiquette applied to different situations. Could it get more confusing? To Logan, this was like open brain surgery. Apparently, different types of bows conveyed certain meanings, and he was becoming quite perplexed. "Placing your hand over your heart indicates respect," Aragorn was explaining.

"It can also mean you're having a cardiac arrest," muttered Logan, but he copied the ranger's actions.

"No, no," said Legolas. That darned elf was enjoying himself way too much. Did he take so much pleasure in others' distress, or did he only take pleasure in Logan's distress? Wait, he wasn't the only one enjoying the show. Logan glared at Merry and Pippin, who were sniggering and fatuously trying to hide the fact with fake coughs. Frodo was still too sombre to laugh. Besides, he was a well bred hobbit who obviously knew that it was not nice to laugh at other people's dilemmas, but he, too, looked amused. Well, he would show them. "The purpose of bowing is not trying to touch your knees with your nose. You are bowing too low, Logan."

"Do you wanna get a protractor so you can measure the angle?" growled the frustrated Wolverine. It wasn't really Legolas who was annoying him. He was jealous of the elf's ability to get everything right. It didn't matter that he had had centuries of practise. Logan wished he could be that graceful. He was beginning to feel that he would never be able to acclimatize to this strange culture with all its strict conventions.

"That will not be necessary," said Aragorn, "and I have no idea what a protractor is. A proper bow should feel that way; proper. If you feel that you are straining your muscles or overbalancing, then you are not doing it correctly."

"And remember, this is the type of bow that you give to a king or someone more or less of that rank," said Boromir. "If you are bowing to a baron, then you only need to bow your head, although if you serve him, then you ought to treat him as a king."

"How would you bow to a lady?" asked Logan. That was the only thing he was interested in. For God's sake, did they think he cared about the proper conduct before kings and barons? The different types of bowing were making his head reel, and as far as he was concerned, there was only one bow worth learning, and that was the one which he would give Sidhien the next time he saw her.

"That would depend on the rank of the lady," said Legolas. "Do you even know what _your_ lady does?"

"She's not _my _lady, and I didn't think it was proper to ask her when we'd just met," said Logan. "It's not as if she asked _me_ what I did for a living."

"If she had done that, you would have told her that you taught young goats," said Boromir.

"Hey! I thought you were supposed to be on my side!"

"It is no insult to state what you would have said," said Boromir with a shrug. "You are a blunt man, Logan."

"And you're overconfident," said Logan. "You know, I can be devastatingly charming when I want to be. Just ask any female."

* * *

Logan was not the most sensitive of people, but he could sense some sort of unknown tension surrounding Frodo. Of course, he knew about that ring, and the hobbit was probably still mourning the loss of Gandalf. They all missed the wizard with his acrid sense of humour. However, Gandalf had been Frodo's main source of support and encouragement and without the wizard and the Ringbearer was even more lost than the others were. However, there seemed to be something else which the Wolverine could not quite pinpoint, and he wasn't sure if he had the right to discuss it with anyone else. Surely if he could feel it, then the others could too; they were a lot more sensitive than he was, especially Merry and Pippin, who had known Frodo their entire lives. The only person Frodo actually conversed with now was Sam and at that moment, they were having a muted discussion. Unbeknownst to them, Logan was listening in on every single word. He couldn't help the fact that he had very good hearing.

They were talking about a mirror, of all things. Why would Frodo and Sam be so into mirrors? It didn't make sense to Logan, although come to think of it, he could use a mirror. He needed a shave. He hadn't exactly neglected his personal grooming completely, of course, but using Boromir or Aragorn's blades as mirrors wasn't exactly ideal. They didn't have the smoothest surfaces and Logan was certain that his sideburns looked messy at the moment. If he was to impress a girl, then he would have to do something about them. Then again, how could he be sure that 'mirror' wasn't just a code word which Sam and Frodo were using? He shook his head. Maybe it really just wasn't his business after all, and he had no right to eavesdrop.

He paid no more attention to the hobbits and instead, tried to make sense of his own life, not that he got very far with that. He was just as confused as he had been about why he was in Middle Earth. To prevent headaches, he had tried not to think about it, but now that there was a chance he might commit to a serious relationship, he felt as if he needed to make sense of things before jumping right in. At the moment, he was simply taking things as they came along. Everything was just a ramble jumble of events, and none of them seemed to have any significant meaning at all. Why was he here? Was he ever going to get back to his own time and world, and if so, would it be fair to establish a relationship which he might be forced to break off?

A soft growl escaped from him. _This _was why he had tried not to think about it. It was too complicated and there was no way he could provide answers to those questions. So where did he go from here?

_Logan. _It was a soft whisper which could have easily been mistaken for the whisper of the wind through the trees, if it had not been inside his head. She called again. _Logan... _The Wolverine was alert at once. Why did the Lady want to speak to _him_ of all people? It wasn't as if he knew anything important, at least, nothing important which concerned this world anyway. He resisted the urge to call out, knowing that she would hear him just as clearly if he simply thought out his answer, or rather, his question.

_Come_. A soft single imperative, yet it was one which Logan could not resist. There was something about the way she commanded him. Maybe she could help him; after all, she was several centuries old —there was no knowing how old exactly, but if she was Elrond's mother-in-law... Moreover, she could read minds. Maybe there was something she knew about him which he didn't know.

Leaving the Fellowship's pavilion, he traipsed through the forest, following the directions which she was projecting directly into his mind. The grass was soft and sunlight filtering through the silver boughs cast dappling shadows on him. At times, he could hear snatches of song as the elves went about their lives, but none of that mattered. Indeed, the elves sang so often that there was nothing unusual about it. All Logan cared about was seeking out the one who could perhaps provide him with some much-needed answers.

As he drew nearer to his destination, wherever that might be, he heard the faint burbling of a spring. It seemed peaceful enough, but something made his senses heighten, and he felt as if he was being tracked. There was something unearthly going on and whatever it was, it was making his hairs stand on an end. He suppressed a shiver and pressed on until he came to the edge of a clearing which was several feet lower than the rest of the forest. That was where the spring was. It spouted out from a crack between smooth dark rocks and trickled into a basin. At first, he couldn't see anyone, and then _she_ stepped out from the shadows, holding a silver pitcher in her hand. She smiled; it seemed welcoming enough.

"Come," she bid him again, only aloud this time. When he did not move, she said nothing more, but stepped towards the centre of the clearing, where a stone basin stood on a pedestal of pale carved marble. Curiosity overwhelmed him, and Logan slowly approached her like a wary beast, ready to run if there was any sign of danger. Unlike her granddaughter, this woman was dangerous.

"I will not harm you," she said, reading his mind. She tilted the pitcher with deliberate slowness and poured water into the basin, filling it almost to the brim. "Will you not come and have a look?"

"What is it?" asked Logan. It seemed harmless enough, looking at a shallow basin of water. It wasn't as if he hadn't seen a birdbath before.

"It is a mirror," she said, stepping back to give him space. "It is my mirror."

"I guess there's no gilded gold frame for you, huh," said Logan. "You know, if you wanted me to shave, you should have told me to bring soap." He bent down and looked at the water, just as she had asked him. At first the only thing he could see was a faded reflection of himself, which was only to be expected. The tiny ripples on the surface distorted the image enough so that he found it difficult to distinguish eye from mouth. If this was the Lady's mirror, then it was a very poor mirror indeed; who could apply make-up with this? Then again, Galadriel didn't need make-up.

At first, he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him, or maybe it was the light, but the image in the water shifted and swirled until a new image appeared. It was a house, one of those old-fashioned mansions which sold for millions of dollars. There were two boys running from it; the older one was dragging the younger one along by the hand. Logan felt as if he should recognize this place because he knew he had seen it somewhere before, but he simply couldn't remember where. Then the boys stopped. Men surrounded them; they seemed to be no more than dark menacing shadows in the night. Before Logan could react, bone claws erupted from between the younger boy's knuckles. No, this wasn't possible. It couldn't be...and yet, what else could it be?

_Do not touch the water_, said Galadriel's voice in his head. Logan gritted his teeth and forced himself to continue looking into this 'mirror'. The scene shifted. He could see two men, and one of them was himself. The other...why did he seem so familiar? They were in the blue uniform of the Union, fighting with bayonets. Horses flipped onto their backs and crushed their riders as they collided with one another in the charge. Logan focused on those two Union soldiers. Bullets were flying past them. Some of those shots hit them, but they were not deterred at all. The two men...they simply healed. Heck, one of them was the Wolverine himself! He didn't have those two peaks in his hair back then. Logan concentrated on his companion, the large vicious one who was always watching his back. Damn it, he should know this man, but who the hell was he?

The wars flashed past his eyes, for the 'mirror' was speeding through the years. He saw the Civil War, the Great War. There were the concentration camps in Germany, with their emaciated prisoners. Children with dark sunken soulless eyes stared back at him as if they were walking corpses. He saw the piles of bodies —the victims of the gas chambers— lying beside shallow pits filled with even more bodies, covered only with a thin layer of lime.

They were in Korea, toiling through the snow as they tried to drive back the communists. The Chinese were there, aiding their Korean allies in this war of ideology. It wasn't hard to recognize them by their distinctive red flag and their half-starved look. They were carrying old-fashioned cannons which had been used in the First World War, bayonets, and other weapons so obsolete that they belonged in museums. They fell like flies under American gunfire, but they kept on coming, relentless, as if they had nothing in the world to fear, climbing over the bodies of their fallen comrades so that they could charge at their enemies.

Vietnam. Children were screaming, rolling on the ground as they tried to put out the fire which was burning them. Napalm. The dead trees, poisoned with Agent Orange. Members of the Viet Cong lying dead; shot in the head, execution style. That large man was there again, except this time he was dragging a terrified woman into one of those bamboo shacks. There was no doubt as to what he was going to do with her. Moments later, he burst out, having been discovered by his comrades. Logan saw himself rush to that man's aid. Dammit, who was he? He noticed something on the other man's hands. Claws? Yes, those were definitely sharpened, curved claws emerging from the tips of his fingers where there should have been fingernails. He recognized those claws, definitely.

Sabretooth. The answer generated more questions. He hadn't even known that he had known Sabretooth! Who was that mutant to him, and why the hell was he defending someone who'd been about to rape a woman? It was incomprehensible. Logan hardly recognized himself as he stared at the images in the water. He wished he could hear what was going on; perhaps that would help him.

_Jimmy._ Who the hell was Jimmy? Logan didn't know a Jimmy, so why was he suddenly remembering that name? He wasn't the one saying the name. It had been someone else —someone he had loved and trusted a long time ago. The 'mirror', such as it was, did not give him a chance to think. The image changed again. He was beside Sabretooth, facing the firing squad, still in Vietnam. That must not have worked out, since both of them had lived to fight on. Another familiar face appeared, only there was no confusion as to who it belonged to. His hair was darker, and his skin was smoother, but there was no doubt that this was Stryker. At least here was something that he did remember.

Then he was in a small dark room, with a woman bending down over him. He somehow knew that this was his house, and that the walls were made of split logs. The moonlight coming from outside illuminated his lover's bare skin. She seemed so pale and fragile in his arms. He reached up to brush her hair away, revealing her face. Wait...he knew that face. He remembered seeing that same woman lying dead next to a ruined nuclear reactor. Her glassy eyes had been open, and he had knelt down to close them. His heart clenched. What was her name? Why didn't he remember her at all? How could he not remember her? To be in such a position with her, in his own house...this was not just a one night liaison. She'd been his, and he'd been hers. So why couldn't he even recall a name?

It was all too much for him. He couldn't handle it. This was his life—_had been_ his life. Someone had taken all these years away from him, although now that he could see them, he wasn't sure if he wanted them back. Oh, the pain of finding out that he had another dead lover out there, and that he hadn't even recognized her when he had brushed her eyes close with his hand. He should have at least given her a decent marked grave. Who else had he neglected? Did he have any family out there? Did he have children? These images were driving him mad as they created more and more questions. They repeated themselves over and over in his head like a broken record, overlapping with one another until they became one roaring blur of sound.

* * *

Blood, killing, massacre, twisted acts of cruelty—and these were men? She would have thought that orcs would be more prone to this sort of activity. The amount of destruction they could create astounded Galadriel, and there was very little that could astound her, after centuries upon centuries of experience. She had seen kingdoms rise and fall, dynasties bloom and fade, but she had never yet encountered a man who would perform such perverse experiments on other men, using machines and potions to control their minds, turning them into unnatural monsters which disrupted the balance of the world.

And the scale of death...one would have thought that with so much killing, the race of Men would have died out entirely. Their weapons were made to destroy; no more did they use cumbersome blades. No, their...projectiles could blast holes in mountains and cause entire islands to sink beneath the waves. She would have said that was the work of Morgoth, but that was Logan's world. Men lived in it, and it was an ugly world, to be certain. Their buildings were tall and impressive, but there was no beauty in those constructions of steel, stone and glass, no life. People moved about as if they were under the control of some mind-binding spell. No one looked at each other. Their eyes were expressionless.

Apparently, this was all normal in Logan's world.

She could sense his frustration at not remembering the things he was seeing, and who could blame him? That had been a significant part of his life; he had forgotten more than a century of experience. She had seen glimpses of it before when she had probed his mind; however, it was not her right to reveal everything to him. He had to find out for himself. The only reason she was showing him the mirror was so that what he saw might be able to prompt him, and there was a chance that it would show him the reason he was here in Middle Earth.

"Do not touch the water," she cautioned him again as she saw him lean in far too close. It was only a soft warning, but it was enough. Logan jerked backwards. His face was haggard, and his eyes were wild with a dangerous predatory light. It was the look of the hunter who was being hunted.

"Why are you showing me this?" he rasped. "What's in it for you?"

"I saw glimpses of what was in your mind," she said, "of what you did not know, and I know you want to know."

"Then why don't you just tell me?" he demanded. His face gleamed with sweat and he was drawing short shallow breaths. It had affected him more than he was willing to let on. Galadriel could feel it; she did not even need to probe his mind again.

"The mind is not a box to be opened or closed at will, Logan Howlett," she said gently, as if she was speaking to a frightened child. In a way, he was a frightened child. "It is more like a mine, with memories lurking in the darkest recesses, waiting for their chance to be rediscovered. It is not my right to delve into your memories for they are yours, and yours alone. My first encounter with them was purely accidental. As for the mirror, I wished to discover your potential future, for that would help me to make sense of why you are here."

"And what did you find out?"

"Very little. Alas, the Mirror does not show us what we want to see all the time. Sometimes, it shows us what we would like least to see. It is the will of Eru that you saw your past, and not your future." She smiled. "Perhaps your future is so undecided that the Mirror cannot determine what will happen. You seem to be the type of man who will make his own future."

"I damn well will make my own future," said Logan. After his harrowing experience, he was not feeling particularly kindly towards the lady. Who was she to try and discover his future? If she wasn't going to help him figure out what had happened to him, then she had no right to rummage around in his head when he hadn't given her permission. Some things _were_ private, and he wasn't just thinking about memories which he could not even recall. "I don't need anybody to tell me what I'm gonna do and what I'm not."

"Indeed, I would not expect you to," said Galadriel. Her face was serene and her voice so even that she sounded as if they had just been discussing the weather. She glanced up at the sky. The sun was sinking towards the horizon in the west behind the trees, casting long shadows over everything. "Perhaps it would be wise for you to go back, Master Logan. The hour grows late, and you have been here for long."

* * *

By the time Logan got back to the pavilion, stars were beginning to appear. A thin sliver of moon hung above him, curved like a deadly claw. The lanterns had been lit, and they illuminated everything in an eerie cool glow. He found the rest of his companions dining. As if seeing glimpses of a past life —well, it was some sort of past life, seeing as it was in the past and he didn't remember it— had not been enough, he had missed seeing Sidhien.

"Hullo!" called Pippin, not noticing the Wolverine's dark mood. "Where have you been, Logan? I was surprised when you didn't turn up in time for tea. Frodo saved you the last slice of honey-glazed ham." The hobbit caught sight of Logan's face, and fell silent.

"Is something the matter?" asked Aragorn.

"Nuthin'," muttered Logan. He really didn't want to talk about it to anyone. Well, not until he had figured out some answers for himself anyway. That was going to take a while. He didn't even know where to start.

"Something is definitely going on," pressed Boromir. "You look ill, Logan." The well-meaning Gondorian was full of concern, but concern was the last thing Logan needed at the moment. He needed some space to think.

"Maybe I should..." began Aragorn, but one look from Logan made him trail off.

"Look, it really is nothin'," he insisted. Not entirely true. "Well, at least it's nothin' I wanna talk about to anyone, 'kay? So just leave it."

"Very well then," said Aragorn. "Just remember, some burdens are not meant to be borne alone." And then he let the matter drop, just like that. Logan was grateful to the ranger. Other people he'd known would have nagged him until he exploded at them. He didn't need to explode, not yet anyway. The rest of the Fellowship, although worried about their friend, made attempts at having a normal conversation so that Logan would not feel even more uncomfortable. The quiet murmur of their voices soothed Logan's mind somewhat. At least there was some form of stability in his life, even if it was a very superficial form of stability. They were on a suicidal quest. It was so easy to lose them.

The Wolverine sat in silence, deep in thought. Damn it! That ranger was right. He really did need some outside opinion, but who could give it to him? Who would understand what it was like to have lived more than a century and yet have only thirty years or so of memories? Who would understand what it was like to wonder if one had any children out there which he had forgotten because he had somehow gotten amnesia? Where was Gandalf when you needed him? For certain, the wizard would have been able to give him some advice. Well, since Gandalf wasn't here, and there wasn't anyone outside the Fellowship that he trusted enough, then he would simply have to make do with the next oldest person.

He just wasn't quite sure how Legolas would react to becoming the Wolverine's personal psychologist.

* * *

**A/N: **I'm sorry the chapter's a little shorter than usual today. I'm exhausted from studying and exams. I have one more exam on Monday, and then everything should be back to normal until the next slot of exams at the end of the year. And it's hard work trying to write from the perspective of an elf who is...whatever age Galadriel is. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the chapter, even though I feel that this one might be lacking in humour. I apologize for glaring mistakes in advance, and if you find them, please tell me so I can fix them.


	22. The Ghost of Logan's Past

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize. **

**R-Cleberg: **Thanks. Logan has no idea what he's in for, and neither does Legolas. At least they'll have some bonding time while they try to figure out the bits and pieces of Logan's past.

**CameoCorbin: **I know that Legolas is a very young elf, and Galadriel, on the other hand, is ancient. I just wasn't quite sure how ancient she was, that's all.

_Thanks to all my reviewers. _

**Chapter 22: The Ghost of Logan's Past**

Boromir woke with a start. Someone was moaning and growling in their sleep. It took very little time to identify who it was. Everyone else had been woken by the noise which Logan was making, and most of them did not know what to make of it. Aragorn looked as if he was contemplating whether to wake the man or to let the nightmare run its course. Being a healer, he obviously thought that sometimes it was just better just to let the dream pass. Boromir had heard that before, although he did not believe it. If he was having a bad dream, then he would rather someone woke him from it.

The claws were not out yet, but if he knew the man —and the Gondorian thought he knew Logan rather well— then it was only a matter of time. However, they could not simply sit there and watch him as he struggled against phantom demons.

There was one way to go about doing this; being a soldier, Boromir was very experienced when it came to waking dangerous men from bad dreams. He picked up his pillow, took aim, and then threw it at the thrashing man. Logan must have heard the movement of the pillow as it neared him, for the claws came out, as the Gondorian had predicted.

The lethal lengths of metal pierced the pillow. Feathers flew everywhere, and Logan sat up with a roar. There was a feral light in his eyes as he looked about for his imagined foes. A film of sweat covered his face, and a tendon was throbbing on his temple. His chest heaved as he gasped for breath. He did not seem to realize that he wasn't in any danger.

"Logan," said Aragorn in a low voice. "Logan!" The Wolverine turned towards him; at first, there was no sign of recognition in his eyes, but gradually, he became aware of his surroundings. The claws retracted, and the feathers settled.

"God," muttered Logan as he rubbed his face with his hands. "Sorry. Go back to sleep, everyone. I didn't mean to wake you."

"It was no fault of yours," said Aragorn. Boromir looked at Aragorn, and then at Logan again. Wasn't the ranger going to ask Logan about what was wrong? It was obvious that things were not going well for the Wolverine. The Gondorian had never seen his friend so disorientated before, and they had been travelling together for many weeks. Ever since that day when Logan had returned from wherever he had been, he had not been the same. It seemed rational to ask him about it; perhaps they could help him. Yet, the ranger gave no indication that he was going to say anymore than that, except for his unwavering stare.

Boromir could stand it no longer. "Something is not right, Logan. Will you not tell us?"

"It's fine," said the Wolverine, cutting him off in midsentence. "Look, it's not that I'm not grateful or anythin', but I'm fine. It's nothing I can't deal with."

Looking at him, Boromir was not convinced, but Logan was not the sort of man who could be forced to do something which he did not want to do. He just hoped that his friend knew what he was doing. He might heal immediately from the wounds of the body, but wounds of the mind were harder to recover from. He had seen many good men taken down by those unseen injuries and become mere shadows of their former selves. What exactly had happened to Logan?

* * *

_Why the hell was he on a vintage motorbike? And why the hell was he being chased? Well, it wasn't surprising that he was being chased. Trouble seemed to follow him, and no matter what he did, he could not avoid it. Somehow, most people in the world seemed to want him dead. But why a vintage motorbike? It wasn't that Logan didn't like vintage motorbikes —he actually loved them— but they weren't the best form of transport to use when one was trying to escape from two armoured humvees and a helicopter._

_And then, all of a sudden, he was propelled into the air, there he was, wrestling with said helicopter. His claws sliced through one of the rotor blades. The aircraft spun out of control, somersaulting in the air as it descended rapidly. Logan only managed to jump off in time..._

Logan sat up in a cold sweat again for what had to be the second time that night. At least he hadn't woken everyone, nor had he so severely mauled the bedding that it would have to be replaced. He took in a few deep breaths cold air to calm himself. His heart was pounding against his ribs so hard that he felt as if it might burst out. It was no use; there was no point in trying to go back to sleep if he was only going to wake up from yet another nightmare. It was better that he stayed awake. He could nap during the day; it wasn't as if there was a lot to do. He climbed out from beneath his twisted sheets and blankets. A walk would do him good. Mild activity was conducive to effective thinking.

"Logan?" said a soft voice. Legolas. Logan glanced up to see the elven prince perched on one of the silver branches of the 'melon' trees. Legolas' face was filled with concerned. "You were dreaming again, were you not?"

"I wonder how you guessed?" said Logan drily, taking care not to speak too loudly. The others probably wanted their beauty sleep.

"I have not been sleeping," said the elf.

"So you're just sitting there watchin' us sleep? That's kinda...freaky."

"Do not flatter yourself. I was not watching you sleep," snapped the elf. He dropped down onto the ground with no noise, landing firmly on his feet like a cat. In fact, he was like a cat in every way; arrogant, regal, nimble and always appearing pristine. Logan could easily imagine him prowling around on the rooftops. "Please refrain from making it sound as if my mind is unstable enough to do such a thing. I was merely sitting in the tree, admiring the stars and contemplating life. I could not help but overhear your murmured curses and grunts."

"Yeah, well," said Logan. He had nothing to say to that, except he was a bit embarrassed that his friend had overheard it all. "I was bein' chased by humvees and a helicopter. What did you expect? Whistling?"

"I hope not," said Legolas. "It cannot be healthy to whistle in one's sleep. But what is this about being chased by... humming bees and a...whatever it was?"

Ah, dammit. It was true that he had wanted to talk to Legolas, but not that soon. "Hum_vees_ and a helicopter," said Logan. "There were no bees involved; I'm not Pooh Bear." Legolas raised an eyebrow at that remark, and Logan rolled his eyes, remembering that all pop-culture references were wasted here. He was _not_ about to tell stories about One Hundred Acre Wood to an elf who was probably a few centuries old; hell, Legolas could be a thousand years old and he wouldn't know it.

"You are hiding something," said Legolas. Well, he was observant—not really, for Logan had thought that it was quite obvious that he was hiding secrets. He'd even told them that he wasn't ready to talk about it. But now, here was the perfect opportunity to talk, since no one else was listening.

"Have you got a minute?" asked the Wolverine, feeling extremely self-conscious.

"Logan, I am immortal," said Legolas. "I have all of eternity." Logan glared at him. The elf sighed. "Yes, that probably was not very amusing," he said. "And I do have a minute. In fact, considering that the others should not wake in the next few hours, I believe we have many minutes during which you can tell me why you are so restless of late. I am young still by the reckoning of my kind, but perhaps I can help you."

The elf sat down at the base of one of the trees and leaned against the trunk, waiting for his friend to talk. Logan sat down opposite him and stared at the ground, plucking at blades of grass. Where to begin? "I've lost my memory," he said.

"I remember you telling me that," said Legolas. "Or are you trying to tell me that you have lost further memories?"

"Will you just listen? I'm tryin' to find a way to start this." Logan took another deep breath. "The Lady took me to see her mirror."

"Lady Galadriel let you see her Mirror?" Legolas' eyes widened, and he sat up straighter; his interest was piqued. "Why you, of all people? Did she say?"

"Why _not _me?" demanded Logan. "And yeah; she said she wanted to see my future —which she didn't, by the way, because the bloody mirror didn't show it, as if _my _future could be decided by some birdbath."

"Birdbath? Logan, you must be mistaken. It is an honour to be allowed to gaze into the Mirror of Galadriel. That she would ask you meant that she thought highly of you."

"She was poking around in my head, and she wouldn't tell me about my past, even though she knows more than I do. How is that an honour?"

* * *

Legolas sighed as Logan told of how he had given Galadriel "a piece of his mind", as he put it. "Well, she was always pokin' around in my head," said Logan in his own defence, "so I thought I might as well let her know what I thought. And it wasn't really _that_ rude. I just said that no one was gonna decide my fate, and that was it. Sure, it wasn't nice, but it was a helluva lot nicer than what I could have done."

"Logan, Logan, when will you ever learn?" he asked in exasperation, not that he had expected Logan to have acted any differently. In fact, he was actually rather impressed with how the Wolverine had held himself back. The old Logan —the one who had called Glorfindel effeminate and himself a 'pretty boy'— would have outright insulted the Lady.

"Are you gonna listen to me, or are you gonna just tell me off for bein' me?" Logan demanded.

"I apologize," said Legolas. "Please, do carry on. What did you see?"

"That's what I really wanna talk about," said Logan. Someone snorted in their sleep; Logan stiffened. Legolas glanced over at their sleeping companions. No one had so much as stirred. Why was Logan being so overcautious? It was safe in Lothlorien, and even if the others did overhear him, they were unlikely to betray him. The Fellowship looked after their own. "I saw my past —bits of it, anyway, and I can't make any sense of it." Legolas said nothing, although his gaze was as intense as ever. The elf did not even blink; it was beginning to unnerve him. "I know it's stupid to ask you to make sense of it for me, since you don't know any more than I do, but you're the oldest person I trust now. If Gandalf had been here, I'd have gone to him, but he's not."

"What exactly did you see?" asked Legolas. He was apprehensive, for he knew that the mirror worked in ways which were beyond the ways of men and elves. Did Logan see something which might concern their quest? Was that why he was so nervous?

"I saw bits of my past," said Logan. "Do you know how weird and disturbing it is to see glimpses of your past _not_ through your eyes, and still not be able to remember what had happened?"

"Truly, Logan, I would not know," said Legolas. "If I were in your place, I would be very distraught indeed."

"I am 'distraught', all right," said Logan, "although I like 'screwed up' better. And you know what's worse? I _did _remember some of those people I saw, only not in the way I saw them. Sabretooth was there."

"The one you threw off the top of the statue of freedom?" asked Legolas.

"Liberty. It's the Statue of Liberty. Yeah, he's that guy, 'cept he was watchin' my back, and I was watchin' his, even when he was about to rape a girl in 'Nam. I dunno what was goin' on. It's like I wasn't even _me._ Then there was this woman. I remember seeing her lying dead on the ground, starin' up at me with those large glassy eyes of hers. I closed them, and then I find out, some fifteen years later, that she was my _lover_!"

"Oh, Eru!" whispered Legolas.

"If that means 'oh shit', then you're quite right," said Logan. "That's exactly how I felt when I saw her in my arms. I mean, I must have loved her, because I took her back to my place and everythin' and—you don't need to know the minor details, and if you think you do, then tough luck, coz I'm not gonna share. All I wanna say is that it wasn't one of those one night stands, but I don't remember anything about her, not even her name. I don't know if I have any brothers, or sisters...I don't even know if I have any neglected kids out there, or grandkids...God! This is too fucked up! I can't think about it anymore; I just can't. If someone will tell me, then it would be better, but _she_ won't, and no one else can. I wanna forget, but I can't do that either. I can't get those images outta my mind. They just won't stop!"

"Logan. Logan!" Legolas tried in vain to soothe him, not that he knew how. The turmoil he must be in...it was a miracle that he had not been driven mad. Actually, the elf could not be certain of that; Logan seemed to be losing any control he had had. "You must calm down. There has to be another way. You said you dreamed of those people chasing you, yet you did not see them in the mirror."

"No, I didn't, but that dream didn't make any more sense than all the rest of it."

"Do you not see the significance of that dream? You are beginning to remember, whether you know it or not. This is a puzzle; the pieces are coming to you one at a time. Have patience."

"You want me to wait?" demanded an incredulous Wolverine. "And how long is that gonna take, huh? Another century? I can't wait that long, Legolas! I'm going crazy here, and if I don't find out something soon, I think I'm gonna go and kill something!"

"Peace, Logan," said the elf. "I know it is frustrating, but if you do not want all of Lothlorien to find out about your condition by tomorrow, you might want to keep your voice down. Despite common misconceptions, mortals are not all deaf." Out of the corner of his eye, Legolas could see Aragorn glowering at him. Logan's shouting had woken all the Fellowship. They were staring at him with a mixture of disbelief and pity on their faces. Probably none of them could imagine being in Logan's place; after all, Legolas could not be alone in his lack of understanding, just as he was not alone in wanting to help the strange brash man they had come to call a friend.

"We might be deaf compared to elves," said Aragorn's voice, breaking through their thoughts. "But we are not _that_ deaf."

"You all heard?" said a dismayed Logan.

"We did," said Boromir. "You should not have kept this from us, Logan. This is too heavy a burden for any man to bear alone."

"I didn't think I should worry everyone with my problems, especially with this whole ring business and all," said Logan. He seemed to be growing embarrassed now, as if admitting that he had problems was something to be ashamed of.

"You saw fit to worry me," said Legolas, raising an eyebrow.

"That's because you wouldn't have worried much anyway," scoffed Logan, "and secondly, I had _thought_ that you would be able to give me some helpful advice, seein' as you're so old and all."

"What do you expect me to say? I have not lost a single year's worth of memories, let alone a century's. In fact, Logan, I have as much idea as you do about this."

"Didn't Haldir say something about another clawed man, and Logan thought it could be someone called 'Sabre Tooth'?" asked Merry. "If it is 'Sabre Tooth' who's been attacking people at the edge of the woods, maybe Logan can go and find him and ask him. I mean, it's not as if you need to complicate an already complicated matter."

"You want me to go find Sabretooth and ask him whether he knows me from somewhere?" asked Logan, staring at the hobbit in disbelief.

"It is better than asking me," said Legolas. "At least this Sabretooth will know something. I, on the other hand, know nothing, and have no experience whatsoever with memory loss."

"Y'know, I don't like asking Sabretooth about _my _life any more than having to wait for the memories to come back," said Logan. He still didn't look happy, but at least he was not shouting and cursing. That had to be some improvement.

* * *

Sidhien did not truly know what to make of that strange man. He was intriguing, being so different from all the people she knew, and she had enjoyed their conversation, as strange as it had been. However, that Logan was a dangerous man. The claws were testimony enough. Even the mildest predator could become lethal when provoked. And yet, she didn't really care if he was dangerous. He had tried his best to be courteous when he had been with her, and from what Berenon had said, this Logan character usually did not try so hard to be courteous to anyone at all, not even to the Lady Galadriel. It had to mean something, did it not? Then again, she was not all that old and wise, having only seen a century and a half. She knew little about the ways of men, be they elves or _edain, _but she had witnessed her sisters' suitors' behaviour towards them, and that strange man had been acting in a similar manner, although he had been a lot less graceful than her sisters' suitors. She shook her head. What was happening to her? She had met that man once, and she could not stop wondering about him. It did not make any sense.

She clambered over some tree roots. The hem of her skirt was damp with the morning dew. Pale sunlight filtered through the golden leaves. She didn't mind the cold; most elves did not. They were not as susceptible to the elements as Men. At least, that was what she had heard. Logan hadn't exactly seemed to mind it. His jacket had so many tears in it that she doubted it kept him warm at all. Maybe she could mend it for him...No, it would be foolish of her to offer. She didn't even know him.

The elf maid reached the clearing, expecting to find the strange company jesting amongst themselves, as they had a tendency to do. However, they seemed rather sombre this morning. No one had even bothered to get out of their sleeping clothes. Prince Legolas was writing with a stick on the ground, illustrating something to his companions. The others were listening to him attentively.

Sidhien felt as if she was the unwelcome observer, intruding on their plans. Who was she to observe the doings of great men such as they? They were lords and princes —at least some of them were— and she was but a young serving maid who simply wanted to be able to concoct elaborate recipes and make pastries in the kitchens of the Lady. She had no right to be here, not that she would understand much of what was going on.

She was about to step back and leave them, but hungry men could not be denied. She saw Logan lift his head and sniff. Then he turned and stared right at her, and she could not help but notice how tired and haunted he looked, as if he had not slept at all. Mortals, she had heard, needed a lot of sleep. When he saw her, he managed a small smile. "Gents, we've got company," he said.

* * *

Any distraction, in this situation, was more than welcome. Logan hated having to tell his companions the story of his life —as much as he remembered— again and again. He knew they were trying to help him establish some links between those seemingly random events, but frankly, it was tiring. Even worse, some of them seemed to have more idea about what was going on with _his_ life than he did. Or Legolas was just pretending that he knew what he was talking about.

Logan had to admit that Sidhien made a beautiful distraction. She wasn't anything compared to Arwen or her telepathic grandmother, but the girl had a sort of playfulness about her which made her approachable. He liked that. Besides, she had a sense of humour. However, just because she was likeable didn't make this moment less uncomfortable, especially now he knew he had a nameless lover somewhere. Until one love was properly buried, it wouldn't be fair to start another relationship. The Wolverine might be many things, but he was also a man of principle.

"I came to bring breakfast," she said, sounding as uncomfortable as Logan felt, although probably for different reasons. Legolas had stood, and bowed to her as well. After doing some quick calculations in his head, Logan concluded that having the Prince of Darkwood-or-wherever-it-was-that-Legolas-came-from bow to you was the equivalent of having the President of the United States salute you. It wasn't inappropriate, but not entirely expected either. It was entirely awkward, as no one knew what to say. Well, Legolas probably knew what to say, but he seemed to be keeping quiet on purpose so that Logan would be able to get a few words in.

"Oh, lovely!" cried Pippin, leaping to his feet to go and take the basket from the elf maid. "Thank you very much! I'm starving. Ooh, look, Merry! Mushrooms, and they're as white and fat as you can ever want them!" The hobbits' delight broke the awkward moment. Sidhien smiled and lowered her eyes, as she had probably been taught to do, and Logan grinned. She was a sweet girl.

"So, I'll see you later today?" he said. "I can bring the dirty dishes. Same tree?"

"As you wish, milord," she said, curtseying to him. He still couldn't get used to that, despite the fact that almost every female creature he had met in Middle Earth had curtseyed at some point. Probably it was the fact that she was curtseying to him. He watched her go until she was out of sight, marvelling at how graceful she was. No matter how confused he now felt, he was still able to admire her.

"Logan!" called Merry, breaking through his thoughts. "You might want to get your share of breakfast before it's all gone. The elves are great poets and artisans, and they have perfected the most important of arts."

* * *

The days passed. Logan became more and more irritable as his memories slowly started to resurface, each one adding to the increasingly twisted dark tale that was his life. It wasn't the darkness which disturbed him, but rather the slow pace. He was not a patient man. So far, all he had gotten from serious analysis was that he had known something very important, something which had threatened someone high up, and they had hunted him to try and silence him. Apparently, he had kept silent anyway, because no one back at home had mentioned anything about classified knowledge, except Chuck, and that was because he had read Logan's mind.

At times, Logan would see faces of people whom he felt he did not know, but ought to know, and sometimes he would hear strange names being whispered inside his mind. They were his ghosts. He even dreamed of Scott Summers as a gangly teenager with his eyes taped over. At least that had given him a nostalgic chuckle. If Scott were still alive, Logan would have been able to ask him about certain things, such as how they had met one another when he had been a teenager. That was, of course, if he ever managed to find a way to get back home. Perhaps Storm would know. Scott must have said something about his past.

The rest of the Fellowship, although eager to help, all had their own business to attend to. Legolas spent much time visiting expats from his homeland who had moved to the Golden Wood to get away from the giant spiders, and the most surprising thing was the fact that he took Gimli with him on these visits, for the two of them had somehow established a firm friendship. Aragorn was often brooding, not that Logan could blame him. The hobbits, as well-meaning as they were, generally proved to be less than helpful. Frodo had his own worries, Sam never said anything, and none of them even thought it possible for someone to completely lose their memories, as Logan clearly had. It confused them greatly, and Logan would rather not add to their confusion.

Not surprisingly, Logan spent most of his time with Boromir as a companion, barring his daily walks with Sidhien. The two men didn't talk much, for they were much too busy with their own worries. Boromir did confide in Logan once or twice, and the Wolverine had to admit that as frustrating as his own situation was, his friend's concerns were more pressing. His country was decaying from within, for Gondor did not have the strength to hold out much longer against the onslaught of Sour Ron's forces, and everyone looked to him to save the nation. That was why he had gone to Rivendell. "We needed hope," said the Gondorian. "Our morale was fading fast, and I...they think I am the answer to everything, and I must be, since they have no one else to look to."

"That's gotta be hard on you," said Logan. Well, what else could he say? For all he was worth, he could not help save a decaying nation. It took more than claws and brute strength to do that. "Look, if there's anything I can do to help, you let me know. Like you said, some burdens are too heavy for one guy."

"Thank you," said Boromir, gripping his arm gratefully. "We can definitely use a man like you."

"I bet you can," said Logan. "You know, Sabretooth and I fought together in almost all the wars worth fighting in."

"I recall you telling us that."

"We made a damn good team. Now, if I can figure out who he is to me, then maybe...maybe...I dunno. I don't really wanna see him, after everything we've done to one another. But, if I don't kill him, that is, maybe we can get him to help fight Ronnie—"

At that, Boromir burst out into laughter. There actually was not much to laugh about, considering how one of them was thinking about how to save his country from utter destruction, and the other was trying to regain a century's worth of memories, but Logan's name for the Dark Lord was simply too much. Logan, on the other hand, remained totally confused as to what was so amusing.

"Did I say somethin'?" he asked. When Boromir only shook his head and laughed some more, he crossed his arms. "Come on! Spill! Friends share jokes!"

"I do not think _you _will find it very amusing," Boromir managed to say. "I have never heard anyone call the Dark Lord 'Ronnie' before!"

"What? I give everyone nicknames, Dark Lord or not," said Logan, but even he was grinning by now. It was quite an undignified name for such a fearsome character.

"That you do, that you do," said Boromir, finally regaining his breath. "Oh, Logan, you have such a refreshing view of the world."

* * *

Logan could not sleep. While the dreams were helpful, they haunted him and left him with a racing heart rate when he woke up. Besides, he really was not that tired this night. Perhaps it was the elvish food, but in Lothlorien, he felt more energized than before, and he didn't know why. Therefore, instead of lying there on his couch, he went and explored the woods on his own. The elves did not sleep much, and it wasn't as if it was that dark within the habitable regions. The lanterns were always lit. The cool breeze brushed his face, and he fancied that he could hear a whisper, although he quickly dismissed it as a figment of his imagination. The wind did not talk.

"Master Logan!" Sidhien was coming towards him. She looked even more beautiful in the moonlight, like an angel sent down from Heaven. Of course, Logan didn't believe in Heaven, but still... "I had thought that you would be resting," she said when she reached him. "What brings you out here?"

"I couldn't sleep," said Logan. She looked surprised at that declaration, and he had to smile. "You elves aren't the only insomniacs around."

"So I see," said the woman. Her head was bowed in a very proper fashion, but she was peering at him from beneath long dark eyelashes. Logan suddenly registered that she had the most beautiful and spirited grey eyes. The light from the lanterns reflecting in them made him feel as if he was peering into the universe as he gazed at her. Then he was aware that he was staring; he didn't know much about elven customs, but in most places, staring was considered rude. He looked away and cleared his throat.

"Er...do you wanna go for a walk?" he asked.

"At this hour?" She seemed to be rather amused by that suggestion, although Logan had no idea why. It wasn't as if he suggested they go and sing karaoke or something like that. "Milord, do you not think that mightily inappropriate, especially since we have just met only a few days ago?"

"What's so inappropriate about walking?" asked Logan. "It's not like I'm gonna—never mind."

"I suppose we could walk if we keep some distance apart," said Sidhien cautiously. "Say, ten feet. It is far enough to be proper, and close enough for conversation—oh, forgive me. I forget that _edain_ do not have the sensitive hearing of the Eldar."

"Eh – dyin'?" said Logan, mangling the pronunciation of the strange new word. "What does that mean?"

"_Edain. _It means your kind, Master Logan," said Sidhien. "The Secondborn. Men."

"Oh," said Logan. He followed the elven maiden, admiring the swiftness of her walk, amongst other things. "So you haven't seen many...uh...eh-dine around here?"

"Only Lord Aragorn," said Sidhien. "And even then, I only glimpsed him from a distance once, about sixty years ago. I was still very young back then; barely out of childhood, but he was younger still."

Ah, so Sidhien wasn't centuries old. That was a good thing; that way, she probably did not see him as a child, since he was almost as old as she was. In fact, he could be even older. He ran through his very small archive of memories again. He had fought in the Civil War, which meant he had to be at least twenty years older than...one hundred and forty. Hmm, how old was Sidhien? It didn't seem to be a polite question to ask.

"What of you, Master Logan?" asked the elf maid, jerking him out of his thoughts. "I take it you have not seen many elves."

"No, not really," said Logan. "Actually, where I come from, elves are fictional creatures with pointy hats and shoes who are about two feet tall and help distribute presents to ki—children during Christmas—that's a celebration in the middle of winter."

"Winter Solstice," provided Sidhien. "How strange. We elves do not think of Men as queer small creatures who have but one purpose in life."

"But you know that Men exist," said Logan. "My people, they don't know that elves exist. You people are just stories to them, y'know. Fairy tales."

"What do you mean by 'feh-ree' tales?" asked the elven maiden. She turned around, cocking her head to one side as she waited for Logan's answer.

"They're like legends," said Logan, "except with even less truth. Our cultures are very different, Sidhien. In fact, until I came to Middle Earth, I thought that elves were just things we made up to entertain kid—children."

"So, you do not come from Middle Earth, then?" asked Sidhien. "That is queer indeed. Where do you come from, then, if not from Middle Earth? I have not heard of any other lands where Men dwell, save for the island of Numenor, and I know that Numenor has long since been claimed by the sea."

"I come from...how do I explain this...I think I come from another world, you know, one where elves and dwarves and bell-rocks and orcs don't exist. It's just got men, and lots of normal animals, not like those warg things. Mind you, we also breed hairless dogs, so maybe our animals aren't that normal. It's just a really different world; more different than you think."

"You must tell me about it, that is, if it pleases you," said Sidhien. "You have fuelled my curiosity, Master Logan, and I wish to hear more."

"You know, after you hear it, you might want to forget it," Logan warned her. "Believe me, it isn't pretty."

"You are a warrior in your world, yes?"

"Soldier and teacher," said Logan. "I am what I need to be, except polite."

Sidhien laughed softly, careful not to disturb anyone who might be resting, or to draw attention to them. "I take it you were a good warrior," she said. "Your family must be proud of you. You must miss them."

"Well, I dunno if they'd be proud of me or not," said Logan. "It's not like I've seen them in the past fifteen years." He was not about to reveal his memory loss to her just yet. He was strange enough as it was.

"Why would they not be?" asked the elf. "A brave skilled warrior is always something to be proud of."

"People don't think that way anymore," said Logan. "They have these things which can send images of war and battle back home. They see all the blood, the burning, the dead people. To them, we're no better than killers like those orcs which you hate." He shook his head. "I'm good at what I do, but what I do ain't very nice."

"A good warrior kills to defend his own. It is not pleasant, but necessary," said Sidhien. "My brother is a warrior, as my father was, and his father before him. We would rather not have to fight, but the pressing darkness gives us little choice."

Logan was about to answer, but a hiss in the trees caught his attentions, followed by a growl. Well, it seemed as if this spirited young elven maiden was going to get a firsthand account of what battle was like. The elven sentries —whom Logan could not see because they were hidden in the canopy of the forest— were communicating to each other in a code of whistles. It sounded like the dawn chorus to Logan, but the meaning was clear enough. It wasn't as if he needed someone to _tell_ him that there was going to be some sort of border skirmish. "Get back!" he shouted to Sidhien. She didn't need to be told twice. She was a smart girl, that one, as well as being beautiful, unlike those pretty but stupid heroines in movies who always insisted on standing beside the hero in a fight, and then end up needing to get rescued. It made Logan like her all the more.

The Wolverine extended his claws in one quick motion; he had thought that he would be ready for whatever emerged from the dark, but what he did see managed to make him both disgusted and curious, for it was not an orc, nor was it a wolf, but a small bony creatures which clung to the trees by its long hairless limbs. A few strands of limp hair hung from its scalp, and large sunken luminous eyes peered out. Somehow, despite its most uncivilized appearance, the creature still wore a loincloth. When it saw Logan, it snarled at him, revealing darkened uneven teeth.

Logan did the only thing he could think of and snarled back.

* * *

**A/N: **This feels like a long filler to me, and I'm not sure I'm completely satisfied with it, but at least I got some more of Logan and Sidhien's developing relationship into the story. Victor is lying low for the moment, but fear not; he will reappear. I hope you enjoyed the chapter anyway.


	23. The Clawed Men

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Vballmania23: **Thanks.

**Whatchamacallit: **Thank you. I'm glad you're enjoying the story.

**Tinea: **I'm glad you're liking this. Logan more or less writes himself because he's got such a distinct way of thinking. I'm not sure whether Logan and Sidhien will work out in the end, but they do have feelings for each other.

**LadyGreySun: **I'm glad you like Sidhien. Usually, I'm not as good with female characters as I am with the males. It's weird.

_Thank you to all those who reviewed. I really appreciate it._

**Chapter 23: The Clawed Men**

If anyone had had the time to pay attention to anything else other than the impending skirmish, then they would have seen a strange sight, for a tall man, brandishing six metal claws, was facing an emaciated creature half his size and having a snarling contest. In truth, Logan didn't know what to make of that thing. It was much too odd. If he had no choice but to label it, he would have said it was E.T. or maybe Yoda. Except, well, E.T. was cuddly —sorta—, and Yoda was civilized. This creature was neither.

Seeing that he was no match for the large man with claws, the creature hissed at Logan again before scrambling through the trees at a rapid pace, disappearing under the cover of darkness. Logan saw no point in chasing it. Firstly, he was more worried about the orcs than some tiny alien, and secondly, he would never be able to catch that thing in the trees. For one, he hated climbing them.

He heard their feet as they pounded through the undergrowth. There were not as many as he had thought, and no doubt the elves would be able to deal with them easily enough. This was more like a scout party than a combat squad, and they were probably less eager to engage in battle. Still, these were orcs, and Logan wasn't sure whether they had the same mindset as human beings, or mutants. Their stench made him wrinkle his nose, but he could deal with it. He had smelled worse things before.

The elven archers above him were ready. Their bows were taut. All that was missing now were their targets. An arrow whistled as it flew down. Moments later, a thud and a strangled cry could be heard as it hit its intended target. Another growl sounded, but this one, unlike those of the orcs, made Logan's hair stand on an end. He knew a superior predator when he heard one, not that he was about to accept that claim.

A figure emerged from the shadows, tall and imposing. Each step was firm and confident. This was not someone who hesitated at all. As he neared the light of the lanterns hanging from the trees, his features became more obvious, although they remained in stark shadows. Sharp eyes stared out from beneath heavy overhanging dark eyebrows. He smiled, revealing sharp canines. There was no mistaking who this was, although the Wolverine was still hoping that it was just a bad dream. "Fancy seeing you here," said Sabretooth.

"You again," growled Logan. "Wasn't last time enough for you?"

"Now, now," said the other mutant. "That is no way to greet an old friend. Where are your manners, young man? I thought I'd taught you better than that."

"I doubt you could have had much to teach me," said Logan. His nostrils flared as he got ready to lunge at the other mutant. Sabretooth was dangerous, and it was better to be prepared than to be sorry. "All you ever did was fight in every single major war. I can do that."

"I see you've remembered more of your past, Logan. That's nice to know," said Sabretooth. "Or maybe you'd like it better if I called you Jimmy?"

Logan's eyes widened. So _that _was why he had suddenly remembered the name. _He _was Jimmy "Why the hell would you do that?" demanded Logan, rather taken aback. "Who am I to you?" He kept his eyes fixed on Sabretooth, making sure that this wasn't some diverting trick. "And you'd better give me some straight answers, dammit, coz if you're not, you're gonna see just how much better my claws are."

"I don't like doing everythin' for you, Jimmy," said Sabretooth. "It's up to you." Logan made to leap at him, but killing the other mutant would negate the whole point of asking him questions. He held himself back; he'd have to thank someone for his newfound self-restraint afterwards. Sabretooth saluted him. There was something mocking in that gesture, but there was also some form of affection. Who was that mutant to him, really? Logan longed to be able to ask that out loud, but he was too proud, and it was too awkward a question. He simply watched on as the other mutant melted back into the shadows.

A shout broke him out of his daze. Sabretooth was gone, but the orcs were still there, not that the elves couldn't deal with them. However, Logan felt like killing something; it was just convenient.

* * *

All of Lothlorien had heard about the incident with the orcs by dawn, not that anything had happened because outnumbered orcs tended not to fight if they had a choice, and some elves insisted that they had seen the other clawed man. They probably had, but Logan would have preferred it if they had stayed quiet; his friends were surely going to pester him about it now. As it was, Merry was already asking questions, trying to see whether the Wolverine had gotten anything out of the other mutant.

"Well, he must have said _something_ of importance," said the hobbit. "You didn't just growl at him, did you?"

"Of course I didn't just growl at him!" said Logan indignantly. "I asked him out loud who he was, but _he_ wouldn't answer me, or do anything except be cocky and call me Jimmy."

"Why would he do that?"

"Because, apparently, _I'm_ Jimmy."

"Well, yes," said the Brandybuck impatiently. "I got that impression, but why are you Logan to some, and Jimmy to others?"

"You tell me," said Logan through gritted teeth. He knew that the hobbit was trying to jog his memory as well as satisfy his own innocent curiosity, but it wasn't helping at all. "Everyone else seems to know more than I do, _including _Legolas, who has only known me for a few months! I've known me for at least a century and a half, if not longer!"

"Logan, it is all a matter of making educated guesses which fit in with the events you have outlined," said the elf, who had overheard the entire not-so-quiet conversation. He had been sitting in a tree and carving something. Now, he leapt down and landed silently on his feet. "You might want to know that I could be horribly wrong, seeing as I know next to nothing about your world, apart from what you have told me. You should be a little more patient. Everything is coming; it just takes time."

"If I was born to be patient, then I wouldn't be the Wolverine," muttered Logan. "By the way, can anyone tell me what a hissy thin creature with straggly bits of hair, bad teeth and a loin cloth is called around these parts?"

* * *

_He was sitting in bed, ill again. "You're always ill," commented an older boy who sat at the end of the bed, sharpening his claws. His brother was always doing that, and he could not help but wonder why Victor was born with claws while everyone else was born with fingernails. It was quite frightening, actually, but he worshipped Victor. His older brother was fearless, and he could do anything._

_Flames flickered cheerfully in the fireplace. They were the only source of light in this room, with its old cosy furniture, small window and slanted ceiling. He plucked at his quilt, wishing that he could be more like his brother. "You were ill too, when you were my age," he said. His voice sounded weak. Victor simply shrugged and continued to sharpen his claws, but he promptly hid his hands behind his back when the door opened. _

"_Hello, James," said his father as he came into the room. "How are you feeling?" _

"_A bit better," said the boy called James. His father placed his hand on his forehead._

"_Well, the temperature's gone down," he said. "You'll be running around again soon enough." The man sat down on the wooden chair next to the bed. He had a kindly, but not very memorable face. In the dim light of the room, half his face was hidden in the shadow. His voice was always soft and gentle. James could not imagine a better man than his father. _

_There was a loud knock on the door. James' father stood, and all the boy could see was the shape of his father's silhouette—not very tall or imposing, but then again, his father had never been one of those men who had been able to make others afraid of him. "Who can it be, at this hour?" he asked. Neither of the boys had any answers for him. Bending down, the man kissed James on the forehead. "I shall be back shortly." He went out again._

_Raised voices came from downstairs. James heard his mother's pleading, his father's soft tones, and the angry words of a stranger. The voices escalated. A gunshot resounded through the house. His mother screamed, and then all was silent. _

Logan sat up, gasping for breath. His chest was heaving, and he was covered in a film of cold sweat. The claws were out; just as well he had woken up before he had managed to do some irrevocable damage with them. He retracted the lengths of metal, and then ran his fingers through his hair. So that was why Sabretooth had called him Jimmy. That had been his name when he had been a normal human being with a loving father. "James," he whispered, testing out the sound of the name.

That older boy in his dream must have been Sabretooth. Sabretooth was his brother? It was an inconceivable notion, and yet, now that he thought about it, it made a lot of sense. Both of them could heal rapidly, and both of them had claws. The only difference was that Stryker had chosen to give Logan adamantium claws, but neglected Sabretooth. 'His name is Victor,' Logan reminded himself. All of them had names, not just their epithets. All those attempts by the other mutant to kill him had been an extreme form of sibling rivalry. God, he needed a good strong drink, and therein lay a problem; where was a man supposed to get drinks in a forest full of elves? Well, there was only one person to ask.

"Legolas?" he whispered, knowing that if the elven prince was near, he would hear him. And if he wasn't near, then Logan would have no chance of finding him.

"What is it?" came the hushed reply.

"Do you by any chance know where you can get a good strong brew here? Something which can knock me off my feet would be nice."

There was a soft rustle as the elf jumped down from his perch. "In other words, you want to be so intoxicated that you can forget everything you don't want to remember?" he asked. He didn't sound as if he approved.

"Well, no," said Logan. "I just wanna clear my head—look, it works for me, 'kay?"

"You want something to intoxicate you so you can clear your head," said Legolas flatly. "Will I ever understand you, Logan?"

"I hope not," said the Wolverine. "What would be the fun in that? Now, can you please stop going off-topic and tell me where the nearest pub is?"

"Oh, such vulgar establishments are not the norm for use elves," said Legolas with a wave of his hand. "If you want a drink, I am certain that Lady Galadriel's kitchens will be more than happy to supply you with a strong beverage. Who knows? Maybe your lady will be there."

* * *

Victor knew that it would only be a matter of time before Jimmy remembered who he was and came up with more questions. It wasn't quite going according to plan —not that his plan had been very detailed, but he had not intended to wait so long. He didn't enjoy being in this forest, the so-called Golden Wood. There was something in there which made him feel vulnerable. His claws and brute strength were no use against weapons of the mind, and he knew how to detect those. One did not serve Saruman without learning that.

He growled and shook his head to rid it of the thoughts of that hateful wizard. Oh, how he longed to tear out that old man's throat with his teeth. But the wizard was too powerful, even for him. Who else besides the Dark Lord in the east could breed an army at such a rapid pace? And what an army it was; Victor had glimpsed it. They were fearsome, not as stupid as the common goblin, and completely loyal to their master. No matter how advanced technology in his own world had become, no one, not even Stryker had been able to create an army like that. Of course, Stryker had been going for quality instead of quantity. Saruman had been going for both, and come out better off for it.

The blood of his latest prey stained his hands and clothes. The remains of gnawed bones had been buried along with the fire he had used to cook it. Sometimes, he felt more like beast than man, while his little brother was wooing pretty girls, or trying to, at any rate. Jimmy had always had a way with the women. He didn't tend to frighten them away the way Victor did, and he had the better claws. Life was not fair, not that Victor cared, as long as those long adamantium coated claws were on his side. 'Soon,' he told himself. 'Soon.'

* * *

The wine was excellent; it wasn't exactly what he had had in mind, and he would have preferred something like vodka, but this was perfectly adequate. Logan sighed as he drained the whole bottle, ignoring the look which Legolas was giving him. The elf held a silver goblet in his hand, and was taking occasional sips from it. He was a good fighter, but he had pansy aristocratic manners.

The warmth from the liquor spread through Logan's chest and into his limbs, making him comfortably drowsy and relaxed. Well, relaxed in that he wasn't hyperventilating about his latest revelation. "I had another dream," he said to the elf. "About when I was a kid."

At that moment, Legolas rapidly swallowed his mouthful of wine, and some of it must have gone down the wrong way, for the elf began to cough. It was a strange sight, seeing the graceful and aloof prince of perfection choke, but Logan wasn't amused. Of course, the elf must have been trying to imagine him as a young goat. When would they ever learn that a 'kid' could also be a child? Well, they probably _knew_ that, but their first thought would always be that of a goat. It was too firmly entrenched in their minds. "Yeah, yeah," said Logan. "A clawed goat; very funny. Do you want to hear about the dream or not?"

"I apologize," wheezed Legolas in between coughs. "Please, do go on."

"If you're gonna laugh at me, then forget it," said Logan with a scowl. It was a serious matter, and the story of his childhood —what he knew of it— was dark. It deserved more respect than that.

"No, I will not laugh at you," said Legolas, who had finally regained his composure. He now sat as if nothing had happened. "You know I will not."

"Fine, then here goes. You know how I used to be Jimmy, right? Well, it turns out that I was actually James, and I had a brother called Victor. He had claws too."

"That 'Sabre Tooth' is your brother?" asked Legolas.

"Yeah," said Logan. "I mean, I had wondered whether I had any brothers or sisters, but that was just shocking. My brother tried to kill me, and I thought I'd thrown him off the Statue of Liberty. We're one twisted family. And that's not all, coz my father was in that dream. No, he didn't have claws, so don't look at me like that. He was just a regular guy. I was sick and in bed. Yes, I did use to be able to get sick; I was like, what, seven at the time. Can't really tell, because kids all look the same from seven to eleven. Tiny little tykes. Anyway, so my father was there in my bedroom, and Victor was there too, sharpening his claws. There was a loud knock on the door. My dad went outside, the next thing I knew, there was a gunshot and a scream."

Legolas held up a hand. "Please, slow down," he said. "What exactly is a 'guhn-shot'?"

Logan was at a loss for words. When he had been retelling his story, the last thing he had expected to need to explain was the definition of a gun. "Well...uh...you see, we had these weapons which were like tubes, and we would insert balls into one end —bullets— and fire them out of the other when we pulled a trigger, causing the hammer to—"

"So it is a weapon, and a gunshot is the sound that said weapon makes?" said Legolas. Logan nodded. Well, maybe that was a better explanation in this situation; concise, and more time conserving.

"Essentially, yes," said Logan. "Well, anyway, I woke up after that. The scream I heard...I think that was my mother. It's the only memory I have of her, can you believe it? I don't even know her face. And it might not even be my mother. I'm just guessin' here. Do you think...my father was killed?"

"I don't know, Logan," said Legolas. "For your sake, I hope not."

"Well, yeah, it's not like I can do anything about it. It's been...what, a century and a half? Whoever killed him would be dead by now, unless he was another long-living mutant, and I don't think he was, coz long-living mutants like me don't really need a gun to kill an average guy like my dad. But, if he did happen to be a long-living mutant, then by God, I'd kill him—not that I believe in God, mind you, coz that old fella up there either doesn't exist or hates me."

* * *

Sidhien knew it was ridiculous of her to form feelings for a man—a mortal. Everyone knew the tragedy of Luthien and Beren. Perhaps their love was enviable, but their fate was not. Her father would probably never allow it, nor would her mother. But this wasn't something she could help. She was young and impulsive, and emotion ruled her more than reason. Of course, no one knew of how she felt, not even her brother, and he was the one whom she was closest to. He would not approve either. And Logan? Well, he was oblivious, as he was usually oblivious to most things. The way he lacked comprehension of everything in Middle Earth was refreshing to her. All her life, she had been surrounded by wiser people who had always been ready to teach her lessons. Not that she didn't appreciate those lessons —although some of them were never absorbed; she was just a young elf, after all— but a change was rather pleasant.

The pale morning light filtered down through the golden leaves. She turned her face towards the sun for a couple of moments, enjoying what warmth there was. Although elves were less affected by the cold, no one ever said they enjoyed it. She, for one, preferred all the other seasons to winter, even if the snow did sparkle prettily whenever there was any. The leaves rustled, as if agreeing with her. She smiled and turned back to her work. It was a pity that Logan couldn't stay long enough to see the spring come. Perhaps after the quest, when the Dark Lord was gone... Well, that was thinking much too far ahead. The future was so uncertain.

She threaded a needle and tied off the ends. On her lap was a tattered leather jacket. She had taken it while he had not been looking; it needed mending. Even if he was oblivious to her actual feelings for him, and to be honest, she wasn't entirely sure of what she felt, being so young, he knew that she liked him enough to consider him a friend at the very least. It was not so strange for one friend to help another. Here, at the base of the ancient mallorn about forty yards from her family's talan, no one could see her. Well, if they paid attention, they would be able to, but why would they need to find her? It was too early for her to go to the kitchens, and her family had no reason to worry. It was not as if she was going to stray from Lothlorien.

She was so occupied that she didn't notice someone approaching her. "Sidhien?" She looked up to see her brother peering down at her. As usual, Berenon was amused about something which only he was aware of. However, behind that smile, Sidhien could detect a hint of concern. Well, Berenon was not wrong to worry. "What are you doing, little sister?" He sat himself down beside her.

"Is it not obvious, brother?" she asked.

"I can see that you are mending...a leather coat?" asked the older elf. "I do not believe that belongs to any of us."

"No indeed," said Sidhien. "This is someone else's jacket. I thought he might appreciate it."

"Who is it?" asked Berenon. When his sister didn't reply, he grinned. "Oh, so our little lady has finally found herself someone. Now you must really tell me, so I can tell you if I believe he is suitable or not."

"You will not like it," she said, turning back to her work. Oh, he would not; none of her family would, and who could blame them? They wanted what was best for her, she knew, and this was probably not it.

"You should not judge my opinion before I have actually formed one," said Berenon. "Who knows? I might surprise you. I am your senior, after all."

"You are only a century older than me," said Sidhien. "That is not so much."

"You go tell that to a mortal," said Berenon, "and they will tell you just how long a century is. For most of them, it is a lifetime, perhaps even more. Now, little sister; you should not keep secrets from those who love you. Tell me."

"If I do, will you promise not to do anything foolish?"

"You have my word as a warrior of Lothlorien." And indeed, the word of a warrior of Lothlorien was to be trusted, because although Berenon's face seemed to change colour before her eyes as she told him the name of the one who had captured her fancy, he did not curse or shout loudly enough to let the whole world know how he thought of this new development. Indeed, he did not seem able to say anything at all for a while, and when he did regain his ability to speak, his voice was but a whisper.

As Sidhien had expected, he was not pleased with this new development.

* * *

Although they harmed no one except for a few trees and bushes, the appearance of orcs on the borders of Lothlorien did remind Aragorn that they could not stay in the Golden Wood forever, no matter how tempting that notion was. There was a world which needed saving and a Dark Lord to defeat. It wasn't something which could be delayed any longer.

For Logan, this brought on mixed reaction. On one hand, he was glad to leave. Inactivity did not suit him, and all he ever did in Lothlorien was eat, sleep, spar, mope about his past —which didn't help anyone— and take long walks with a charming woman. Well, that part he didn't mind much at all, except for the fact that he had some unresolved issues about a past lover who was yet nameless. But still, no matter how complicated his feelings were, he did not want to leave Sidhien.

Winter still hung over them as they prepared for their departure, but small signs of spring were beginning to emerge. The days were getting longer, although it stayed perpetually dark in the east as the shadow spread, reminding them that they didn't have all that much time left. Boromir was especially uneasy, and it wasn't hard to guess why. From Logan's limited knowledge of Middle Earth's geography, Gondor would be the first to fall if that Sour Ron guy in 'More Door'. Apparently, Ron wasn't even a person, but an eye, which didn't make much sense to him at all, but the others seemed to find him threatening, and who was he to try and argue with them? They knew more than he did about all of this.

The plan was for the entire Fellowship to go down the River 'And-dween', which was just _the_ Great River, until they came to some other place at which they were to continue on foot to More Door. Logan hadn't understood much of that either, but he was quite certain that he didn't need to understand it. As long as he followed Aragorn, he couldn't go that wrong, could he? "You know what I really want?" he said to Boromir as the two of them were loading supplies onto those flimsy-looking elven boats. They were grey too, although Legolas insisted that they were silver instead. What was it with elves and silver anyway? Wouldn't gold be better?

"To regain all your memories?" said the Gondorian.

"Well, yes, but apart from that," said Logan. "I'd like a nice motorbike with turbo engines; that way, it'll take a lot less time to get to More Door. Like maybe...two weeks at the most?"

"Although I do not know what you really mean, the notion of completing our quest in less time sounds lovely," said the Gondorian. He set down another large wrapped bundle inside the boat. Clearly, these people had not heard of suitcases. The small wooden vessel rocked gently as the two men continued to load their luggage onto it.

"Y'know, I don't think that this is such a good idea," said Logan, staring at the boat. They were very pretty, and they looked delicate. "I think I might sink one o' those, and then I'd have to swim." He really wasn't in a great mood. They were leaving, and he could not find his leather jacket. It was falling apart, he knew, but that jacket was part of his identity. Without it, he felt exposed.

"Oh, come, Logan," said Aragorn, who had overheard him. "You are not that heavy, and the elves built these. They will not sink under your weight."

"But what about my weight _and_ the weight of all that luggage?" asked Logan. "I mean, it's not as if these are very sturdy or big."

"They will be better than any boats which you have encountered before," said the ranger. "I give you my word. They are unsinkable."

"Then you'd better hope that your word is actually worth something when mine goes _Titanic_ on me," said Logan, prodding one of the boats with the toe of his boot. When he looked up, everyone was staring at him blankly. Darn, he'd used another reference from popular culture again. Now he was going to tell them the story, and he wasn't sure if he actually wanted to. Well, maybe he could give them a quick explanation so that they would get what he was saying. He'd gotten the hang of telling concise stories. "The _Titanic_'s a big unsinkable ship which sank."

"Then it would not be unsinkable," said Boromir.

"Yeah, but everyone _thought_ it was unsinkable," said Logan, "and that's why when Strider tells me that these boats are unsinkable, I don't believe him."

"I thank you for your vote of confidence," said the ranger drily. "It warms my heart to see that my friends trust me."

"Hey, I trust you on most things," protested Logan. "I only mistrust you when you state the impossible. No boat is unsinkable."

"And men aren't supposed to have claws," retorted Aragorn without even a moment's hesitation. "Yet, here you are. I do not think you are the right one to say what is impossible and what is not, Logan. If anything, you are living proof that the impossible does happen."

"So, if you say that it is impossible for the boats to sink, it doesn't mean anythin' coz nothin's impossible," said Logan. Aragorn simply rolled his eyes, causing the Wolverine to grin. Riling people was his specialty, and he was glad to see that he had not lost his touch after months spent amongst ultra-polite people.

"Well, Logan," said Boromir, "if your boat does sink, then you can rub Aragorn's face in it, but only if it sinks. Otherwise, it would not be fair." The Gondorian clapped him on the shoulder. "And have some faith in him. It is not easy being a leader, and it is even more difficult when those whom you lead do not trust you."

"I do trust him," said Logan loudly enough for everyone in the vicinity to hear. "I mean, I've trusted him all this time, haven't I? I just think he's bonkers if he believes that there are such things as unsinkable boats."

"And is calling someone 'bonkers' supposed to be a compliment?" called Aragorn.

"At least you're not _boring_," said Logan. "Besides, you don't even know what 'bonkers' means!"

* * *

It seemed as if all of Lothlorien had gathered to see the Fellowship off, as if it was a monumental affair. Well, it probably was; it wasn't everyday that people saw a diverse team of people on whom the fate of their world relied. The Lady and the Lord, resplendent in their silver robes —there goes the silver again—, were holding yet another feast in their honour. This one, instead of in a tree, took place on a ship made out of pale mallorn wood. Its figurehead was a swan; well, part of a swan. The bow consisted of the gracefully curved neck and head, while the hull was built to look like the bird's body, complete with carved folded wings. It was quite impressive, really, in a whimsical manner. These people did love their art.

Nobody had much of an appetite, because although some of them were eager to finish their quest, they were all reluctant to leave the Golden Wood, for various reasons. Logan's reason was standing right behind the Lady with her head bowed. Her dark hair was loose. He could see her glancing at him frequently, but not daring to hold his gaze for long; however, those brief moments of eye contact were enough for him to see the way she was looking at him, and for the first time, he felt he could see himself through her eyes. It didn't matter that he was a strange clawed man with no manners to speak of. She was going to miss him. The revelation gave him a surge of confidence, and he sat up straighter.

"You are all resolved to continue," said the Lord once the meal was over and the dishes had been cleared away. Logan never caught his name, so he was just _the _Lord to him. No doubt Aragorn would seek to better educate him in the future, but for now, it would have to do. At least he hadn't called the guy Rapunzel, even though his hair was awfully long and luscious.

"I have no choice but to go on," said Boromir, bowing his head as he spoke. "My home lies to the south."

"That may be," said the Lord, "but do all of you go to Minas Tirith?"

"We will go by boat as far as the Falls of Rauros," said Aragorn quietly. "Beyond that, I do not know. Nothing is clear." Although he still held himself proudly, he looked as if he had the burden of the world on his shoulders. Still, Logan had to be impressed with the fact that he was not stuttering. Nor did his voice waver at any point. It took a strong man to admit that he had no plan for the future.

The Lord and Lady only nodded, and asked no more questions. The hour had come for the Fellowship to set out, and many of the elves had brought them gifts of food and clothing. Most of the food was in the form of thin pale cakes wrapped in wide leaves. Logan thought it odd that they would give cookies as farewell gifts to people who were probably more in need of beef jerky, but he was definitely not saying 'no' to cookies.

As he was busy stowing his share of elven cookies away, he heard a soft footfall behind him, and he looked up to see Sidhien. For an awkward moment, the two of them simply stared at one another, unsure of what to say. 'Goodbye' seemed too pathetic to Logan, considering the way he felt about this girl. "I have something for you," Sidhien finally said, breaking the silence. She handed him a heavy cloth-wrapped bundle. Logan smiled nervously. He hadn't even thought of giving her a goodbye gift! How stupid could he have been? "Well?" said Sidhien softly when he did nothing but stare at the gift. "Will you not open it?"

"Oh, yeah...um...sorry," he said. God, was he blushing? No, no, no; that would not do. The Wolverine did _not_ blush. He unwrapped the bundle. Inside lay his leather jacket. It had been mended with meticulous even stitches. "So you had my jacket all along!" he said, grinning. "And here I was, searching high and low for it. Thank you, really."

"It is only a coat," said Sidhien. "Is it really that important to you?"

"More than you know," said Logan as he slipped his arms into the sleeves. "It's part o' me, honey."

"I beg your pardon, Master Logan," said another voice; a male voice, and it was not friendly. Both Logan and Sidhien were so startled that they jumped apart immediately, each wearing guilty expressions on their faces. The owner of the voice was the same elf who had led him through the woods when he had been blindfolded and bound. "What did you just call my sister?"

Oops.

* * *

**A/N: **They're finally out of Lothlorien, and the action can begin again! And guess who's gonna be following them? (Apart from Gollum, that is.) I hope you enjoyed the chapter. There might be quite a few typos since it's four in the morning right now, and if I don't go, I'll be in such hot water tomorrow morning/afternoon.


	24. Row Your Boat

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything that you recognize. **

**Jjinks: **Thanks for the review. As for Logan talking his way out of something...well, negotiation isn't one of his strong points. ;)

**Chapter 24: Row Your Boat**

Logan glanced at Sidhien, and then at her brother again. Cold fury glittered in the elven warrior's eyes, and his body was tense. From the way he was holding himself, the Wolverine guessed that he was preparing to charge at someone and wrestle whoever it was to the ground. Most likely him; of course, Berenon could not possibly beat Logan in a fight, but the fact was that Logan didn't want to fight Sidhien's brother. It would not benefit him in the least, whether he won or not. If he lost, then it would be even worse.

"I...uh..." he began, but he couldn't really think of a way to argue himself out of this one; the evidence was right there. He had called Sidhien 'honey'.

"Yes?" said Berenon.

'When will you ever learn to think before you speak, Logan?' the Wolverine asked himself. His subconscious replied immediately. _Never_. 'Well, screw you,' thought Logan. "It's a term of...endearment, that's all," he said out loud. "Your sister's sweet, like honey." He was aware that everyone was watching him now, and this was becoming really embarrassing. "It's not like it's an insult or anythin'. I mean..."

"What he really means is that he gives nicknames to everyone," Sidhien cut in. "It is nothing, really."

"But I don't call _everyone_ 'honey'," said Logan; once again, his words came out before his mind could truly process them. "I called you that because you're not just anyone to me, Sidhien. You know that." He heard someone snort behind him, but he couldn't really tell who, since when he looked back, everyone of the Fellowship refused to meet his gaze, and all of the elves —with the exception of Legolas— looked entirely serious.

"Logan," said the elf maid quietly. She was pleading with him. Well, what could he do except agree with her? She was only trying to help, after all.

"Yeah, I give everyone nicknames," he said grudgingly. That wasn't entirely true. Sometimes, he'd just misheard their names, or couldn't remember them.

"He called Lord Glorfindel 'Goldilocks'," added Aragorn. His voice sounded slightly strangled, but the ranger had to be commended. His face was straight. Well, relatively straight.

"And he called _me_ a pretty boy," added Legolas. No laughing there; Logan guessed that it wasn't a laughing matter when said insulting nicknames referred to oneself.

"Why haven't I got a nickname?" Pippin whispered to Merry.

"Shh!" Merry whispered back. "Do you want one?"

"He meant no harm by it, Berenon," said Sidhien. "It is no different from when you call me your little lady."

"I am your brother," said Berenon. "I can call you by silly names."

"And he is my friend," retorted the elf maiden. "I am not offended by his use of such an endearment, so why should you be?"

"Because you are my sister!" said Berenon. His exasperation was evident. Maybe even elves had their moments of complete helplessness when their lives spiralled out of control. "It is my duty to protect you."

"What are you protecting me from?" asked Sidhien. "Are you certain you were not defending your pride?"

"Um, excuse me—" Logan began, but for once, he was completely ignored. They just argued over his entreaty. The heated discussion had lapsed into elvish, and he had no idea what they were saying. However, it seemed to be the usual; the older brother was reprimanding his younger sister, and his sister was having none of it. He'd seen it many times. "Hey, hey!" he said, louder this time. "Will you just listen? Look, Bere—Sidhien's brother, I'm sorry if I offended you, okay? I like your sister, and I don't wanna be your enemy for her sake. But I'm gonna tell you that you're overreactin', coz it ain't a crime to call a lady 'honey'. Least, I don't think so."

"I do not think _anyone_ has called a lady 'honey' before, Logan," Legolas whispered. The elf had sneaked up silently behind him, as he was prone to do. "Then again, you _are_ the man who whistled at the Lady Galadriel."

"Just shut up, will ya?" Logan hissed back. "I'm never gonna be all formal and polite like you guys, so you might as well accept it an' move on."

"For your information, you are also the only person to tell a prince to 'shut up'," said the elf, completely unperturbed. "However, seeing as you are in a bad mood, I shall let that pass." Unbeknownst to Logan, Legolas was doing this on purpose. He knew that all the elves around them could hear their private little conversation; he was using this to show Berenon in particular just how brash Logan can be. It was only a misunderstanding, after all, and they had no need to darken their hour of departure with a petty argument over the usage of a strange endearment.

Berenon gave Logan one last glare before stalking off. He was letting this go for now, but if the Wolverine ever saw his sister again, he would have to be careful. Elves had awfully long memories.

Sidhien's temper faded as soon as her brother disappeared out of sight. "I am sorry," she said. "He should not have attacked you like that. My brother is rash and quick-tempered, and he is very protective of me."

"Hey, don't be sorry," said Logan. Much to the surprise of all those present —and that included the members of the Fellowship—, he stepped forwards and gently took her pale delicate hands in his own rough ones. It was so unconventional that it bordered on the improper. However, with so many chaperones present, including the Prince of Mirkwood, the Heir of Isildur, Galadriel and Celeborn, it was just passable. "Listen," he said. "I just wanna say thank you for everything. You've made an impression on me, and I won't forget it."

"Logan...I didn't—" Logan placed a finger on his lips, indicating that she shouldn't deny it. She fell silent, and then took a deep breath. "If something happens," she said, "and we never meet again, I want you to know that you mean a lot to me, and I am glad to have made your acquaintance. I will not forget you either." If this had been in his own world, Logan would have kissed her right there and then, and maybe even gone further. However, this wasn't his own world, and he suspected that brother of hers might get angry enough to behead him if he did do that, so he satisfied himself with giving her fingers a tiny squeeze before bowing.

"I _will_ be seein' you again," he said. "You can count on that."

* * *

The boat did hold Logan's weight, and the weight of all that luggage. It seemed that the Wolverine did owe Aragorn an apology after all. The entire Fellowship was silent; it was rare, for they usually had something to talk about. Either Pippin would complain about how hungry he was —although that was highly unlikely, since he had eaten four of those strange elvish cookies this morning— or Gimli and Legolas would be bantering about one thing or another. Or Logan himself would be delivering a monologue, or even discussing something with Boromir. But not this morning, for they were all thinking of Lothlorien and the time they had spent there. No doubt many of them were musing about the gifts they had received. And truly, they were quite spectacular gifts.

Galadriel was the most creative gift-giver Logan had ever encountered — and he had bought his friends a great number of strange gifts over the years during his last minute Christmas shopping sprees. Frodo had gotten a light bulb with no filament and filled with liquid. Sam had gotten a box of dirt. Legolas had a new bow and some new arrows which he loved. Gimli — Logan wasn't quite sure what Gimli had gotten. Aragorn had received a stone and another name; the Wolverine had overheard the Lady calling him 'Elfstone', which, in Logan's opinion, was a pretty bad name, but whatever. It was Aragorn's name, and as long as it floated his boat...

Boromir was wearing his gift right now. It was a golden belt which was made to resemble many vines curling and entwining around each other. The detail was exquisite, and while Logan was not a great admirer of fashion, he felt that the belt suited Boromir very well. If the ladies in Gondor —or anywhere else, for that matter— did not swoon at the sight of him, then there was probably something wrong with them.

As for Logan, he'd received a sword. "Sometimes, claws are not long enough," the Lady had told him when she had given him the weapon. And it was a beautiful weapon. Both the scabbard and the hilt were covered in a golden leaf motif over a background of silver. The blade itself, by contrast, was plain, but keen. Logan had been too careless in testing it, and he'd sliced open his thumb. Not that it hurt that much, and he'd soon healed, but that had been embarrassing. It was a heavier weapon than those of the elves, but that suited him perfectly. Then again, the Lady had probably known. She was able to read minds, after all. She must have known that the Wolverine would prefer something which could have a great deal of momentum when swung. The sword had been custom made for him. In fact, she probably knew him better than he did.

He dipped the paddle into the water. Kayaking really wasn't his thing, but since the boat was not sinking, he could deal with it. After all, there wasn't actually anything he could do about it if he wanted continue travelling with his friends. And he did want to travel with them. This probably wasn't any of his business, but he had made it his business, and the Wolverine never left something unfinished. It was not his way. Well, he didn't leave this sort of thing unfinished. However, other things...

Sidhien's scent still clung to his leather jacket. She smelled clean, kind of like a spring morning in the Canadian countryside after rain. He lifted his sleeve to his nose, breathing deeply. Yes, he was definitely going to miss her.

"What is it, Logan?" called a voice from behind him. Ah, whoops. Boromir must have caught him sniffing, and the man from Gondor had mistaken that as a sign of impending danger. He glanced back at the other boat.

"Nuthin'," he said. No, he would not blush. There was nothing to be ashamed of. "It's just something personal, that's all." Just as well he was alone in his boat, making the need for conversation moot. He could already see Merry and Pippin looking at him with much curiosity; shouting was not the best way to facilitate a discussion, especially not out here, where there could be other things of a less savoury nature listening to them. Like the Sabretooth. Logan thought it would be best if he could find out about his former lover from his brother first before revealing his budding relationship with a beautiful immortal woman to him, especially since he didn't know where this relationship was going. Was it going to have a happy ending? Would they even be allowed to take it further than just friendship? Interracial marriage caused enough complications; what about inter-species relationships? As far as he knew, he and Sidhien were of two different species entirely. Would her family allow it?

Oh, why the hell was he thinking so far into the future anyway? If their relationship was to go anywhere, they'd have to save Middle Earth first, and he could not afford to be distracted. God, he needed a drink. Did the elves give them any liquor? Unfortunately, it didn't take long for him to answer that question. He couldn't smell alcohol, and therefore, was forced to come to the conclusion that there was, in fact, nothing stronger than tea, and herbal tea, at that. Herbal tea and the Wolverine simply did not go together very well.

The water was smooth, for which Logan had to be thankful. He wasn't fond of boats for the same reason he wasn't fond of aircraft. The up and down movement made him feel dizzy at times, and he hated having to admit that he had weaknesses. It didn't mesh with his reputation as a fearless, almost beast-like man who seemed to delight in dealing out death and destruction. He wasn't so good at steering his boat, but in such calm conditions, he managed. However, he wasn't sure it was going to stay that calm, for dark clouds had gathered on the horizon. It looked like rain. Great; just great. While they had all been given cloaks of a nondescript colour by the Lady, Logan doubted that they would be able to keep the Fellowship dry. They simply didn't feel waterproof.

Most of the time, they rowed in tense silence. At the moment, they were still within the borders of Lothlorien, so it was relatively safe. However, it would only be a matter of time before they left the protection of the Lady and her subjects. Who knew what lurked out there, waiting for them? Such a thought kept them all sombre. However, Pippin was never one to stay depressed for long, especially since they were worrying about a seemingly non-existent threat. That hobbit seemed to be of the opinion that it was best to take everything with a grin —a very healthy position, probably, if somewhat hard to achieve. He began chatting with Merry, who was sharing a boat with him, along with Boromir.

"Y'know," called Logan. "I'm really impressed you can still joke, considerin' the fact that we're probably gonna be made into minced meat sooner or later."

"Minced meat?" said Merry. "Come on, now, Logan. Do you really have that little self-confidence?"

"I think his tough appearance is just a farce," remarked Pippin in an extremely loud and dramatic whisper, used for effect. "I mean, look at him. He looks a bit scared all alone in his boat, don't you think?"

"Hey! This is not Make-Fun-of-Logan Day!" protested the Wolverine. Why oh why did he have to comment? He preferred the depressing brooding silence to this. Well, maybe not, but it was not funny when he was always the butt of every joke—half the jokes, at least. It wasn't his fault that he didn't understand much about Middle Earth, just as it wasn't his fault that he lacked a filter between brain and mouth. "Don't forget, I'm the one with the claws."

"Now, now, Logan," chided Boromir. He even managed a small smile. "Play nicely, please."

"Don't worry, Boromir," said Merry. "He can't do anything right now, since we're quite far away from his boat. However, if he comes closer, could you please row faster? I don't want to end up as a wolverine's mince pie."

"Whaddya mean I can't do anythin' to you right now?" demanded Logan. "I can...I can _sing_ till your ears drop off, then you'll be beggin' me to stop!"

"If you were such a bad singer, then that would be a threat to consider," said Merry, "but I've heard you sing, and you're pretty good."

"Why, thanks," said Logan. "But I know some pretty bad lyrics. You wanna hear the one about meat pies? Or maybe the one about ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall? I can go on forever with that. Oh, and then there's the song that never ends, and that's got about like what...no tune and lyrics that repeat over and over again?"

"That actually sounds quite horrifying," murmured Boromir to the hobbits. "You might want to reconsider."

"But teasing Logan is so much fun," said Pippin. "He completely overreacts."

"As long as it's not 'we all deserve to die', then I think I can handle it," called Aragorn from the front.

"I can sing that one if you want," offered Logan. "I mean, it'll just make the situation more bleak, right? Coz we're probably all gonna die, except for me, coz I'm the indestructible Wolverine."

"Thank you, Logan," said Legolas drily without even deigning to glance back. "I think I can deal with my impending death on my own without you reminding me of it."

"Well, look on the bright side," said Logan. "At least we're probably gonna go down in a hail of bullets. Mind you, that kinda hurts, but at least it'll be interesting, unlike dying in bed of old age or somethin'."

"I would prefer to die of old age in bed, thank you very much," said Boromir. "And no, it will not be a hail of pullets; it will be a shower of arrows. I do not think that firing chickens at one's enemies is very effective."

"Bullets, not pullets, Boromir," said Logan. "Anyway, it's the same. You'd still get shot. Mind you, I've been shot loads of times and it hasn't done anything to me, so I'll probably have to find some other way if we're going down together. No, I _don't_ need help. Honestly, you people."

* * *

Uneventful days had passed. While he was bored, Logan was glad that nothing had tried to kill them yet. They had passed through the borders of Lothlorien sometime ago. The river was wider here, with dense forests covering either shore. At times, he fancied he could see a couple of fallen statues. Aragorn had said that a king once ruled here, and he had built great monuments, although they were naught but ruins now. Logan wondered if Middle Earth had any archaeologists. Surely there would be some history worth digging up here.

He stopped rowing suddenly. A mild breeze was blowing towards them from the western shore, and it was carrying an unpleasant foreign scent. The others fell silent as well as Logan lifted his head and sniffed. They had long since gotten used to the Wolverine's way of detecting danger, and they knew that they ought to be more alert than usual when their friend started displaying this sort of behaviour. "There's something foul close by," said Logan at last. "Kind of like orcs, and yet, not like orcs. Don't make me explain; I can't. They don't quite smell the same, that's all. Keep an eye open when you sleep just in case they attack us or somethin'."

"I should hope that whoever is keeping watch is going to have two eyes open," said Legolas. He scanned the eastern shore with narrowed eyes, body tense and one hand resting on his bow. "Alas, I can see nothing, for the vegetation is too dense."

Crows rose from the trees just as the elf finished speaking, cawing loudly as if they were scolding whatever had startled them and confirming the Fellowship's worst fears. They were being followed, possibly by more than just one party. The worst part was not knowing what exactly was following them. Logan's description had been so vague as to be almost unhelpful. No one was more aware of that than the Wolverine himself, but what could he do, short of volunteering to go onshore to scout? The only thing they could do was row, and hope that they could leave their pursuers behind.

The sky darkened as the sun sank in the west. Hues of red streaked the sky, rather like bloodstains. Logan was in no mood for cheerful analogies; all his thoughts at the moment were rather morbid. Even things which should have warmed his heart took on decidedly macabre tones. Whenever he thought of Sidhien, he worried about her and how she would deal with the advancing darkness. What if they failed in their quest to save the world? What would happen to her then? He didn't want to know, but he couldn't help imagining the chaos which would reign over Middle Earth.

A thick veil of mist settled on the river. Logan watched it swirl around him in cold moist tendrils, hiding everything from sight. All sounds were muffled. He felt as if he was being wrapped in a shroud, and it was not a good feeling. He could hardly see his companions; all he could make out was the faint outline of their shapes. There was Boromir, stoic as ever, bending down to assure Merry and Pippin that he was not about to let their boat crash into a rock. Then there was Legolas and Gimli; it was easy enough to tell that it was them, for there were only two people in their boat. Aragorn, Frodo and Sam were still at the front, although they seemed to have stopped.

"Strider!" called Logan. "Don't you think we should call it a day now? I can't see where the hell I'm goin', and at this rate, I'm probably gonna fall down a waterfall and be none the wiser." He probably would know if he fell down a waterfall, but the Wolverine enjoyed exaggerating. Besides, it was a real worry. In this mist, anything could happen. One tended not to drive in such conditions, so why should they row? It wasn't exactly a very merry boat ride. Whoever had made up that song had clearly not been doing any serious rowing. He would have to make up some more suitable lyrics.

"You should not worry about falling down a waterfall," came the reply, "as there is no waterfall nearby. Of that I am certain. You would be able to hear it." Well, true enough. But that was no excuse not to stop. The Wolverine was about to voice his opinions when the ranger spoke again. "However, you are right about one thing, Logan; we ought to stop, as I think it would be prudent to rest before we resume our journey at dawn tomorrow. We cannot make much progress if we are so tired."

With some difficulty on Logan's part, the Fellowship made their way to a relatively sheltered and still patch of water near the shore, and tied their boats to some trees whose branches stretched out over the edge of the river. No one ventured onto land, however, and Logan couldn't blame them, considering they had no idea what was out there. Better to sleep in the boats, and pray that they did not float away during the night. Now, _that_ would pose a big problem should it actually occur. He double-checked his knots to make sure that they were secure, all the while wondering whether he had been a sailor in his past life. He had had no idea that he could tie such knots, and yet he had done it without even thinking about what he had been doing. Maybe they taught knot-tying in the army as well. That would certainly explain it.

A pale half-moon hung in the sky, framed by a few faint stars. After a meagre meal consisting of dried meat and a bite of those very filling elvish cookies, which were called 'limp bus' or something like that, they wrapped themselves in their cloaks and tried to catch some sleep. Aragorn was on first watch, and for a long time, he sat hunched in his boat, with his unlit pipe in his mouth, for although he longed to smoke, he had long since run out of pipe weed. Seeing his friend like that reminded Logan of the fact that he still had one and a half cigars left, not that he was about to smoke them right there and then. No—he might need them more in the future. Instead, the Wolverine stared up at the sky for a long time. Sleep was elusive, and although he tried to count the stars—and lost count—, he remained as wide awake as ever. The knowledge that there was something out there tracking them made him feel uneasy. He had been hunted before, and he hadn't enjoyed it at all.

Somewhere onshore, a twig cracked as someone stepped on it. The sudden sound shattered the muffled silence, and it seemed extraordinarily loud and very close. At once, they were all awake, and Logan realized that he had not been the only one who had been unable to drift off. Swords were unsheathed, axes were brandished, and in Legolas' case, an arrow was nocked. They heard a rustle. Whatever it was, it was getting closer, and it sounded large. Logan's claws glinted dully in the moonlight as he tried to pinpoint the direction from which the sounds were coming. Damn the mist; it was disorientating him.

A breeze blew towards them from the western shore. No, whatever it was, it was not an orc. Nor was it what Logan had smelled earlier that day. He sniffed again; the scent of unwashed human was undeniable, and it was someone he knew. "Victor," he growled.

* * *

Well, what could he say? There was definitely family resemblance there. For one, both Logan and his brother were large men, although the Sabretooth was by far the larger one. That hulk of a man emerged from the mists as stealthily as any predator could be, wearing a grin on his face. Boromir tightened his grip on his sword. Who knew whether the man meant to harm them? It didn't take much imagination to see him ripping men apart with his bare hands, and surely _It _called to him too, just as it called to every member of the Company. Could he refrain from reaching out and taking it? Even strong men found it hard to resist the temptation. He could sense the two hobbits tensing in fear behind him; he couldn't blame them. This 'Victor' character looked wild and vicious, with his long canines and his clawed hands. As he neared the boats, they could make out the feral gleam in his eye. Old blood stained his weathered clothing. Boromir couldn't tell whether it was from a man or an animal.

Logan was no less tense than any of them, but he made no sign to charge at his brother, and until he did so, Boromir, and the rest of the Fellowship, would follow his lead. After all, he was the one who knew the Sabretooth the best. It was very hard to make out any more of the man's features, for they were being obscured by a shaggy mane of matted hair.

"So you have finally remembered me," said the Sabretooth to Logan. His voice was rough—more animal than man, but it suited him. "I was wondering how much longer it would take."

"Yeah, I did remember, no thanks to you," said Logan. If he had been anything but a man, Boromir would have expected to see bristling hairs. This was no mere confrontation between two brothers. He and Faramir had had their disagreements, but they had never behaved like two mountain lions getting ready to battle for their superiority. "And no, it doesn't mean I won't try to kill you now, coz you tried to kill me, so all in all, you haven't been very brotherly. I'm disinclined to forget that little episode on top of the Statue of Liberty."

"You can't put all the blame on me," said the Sabretooth. He loped over to the boats and stopped at the very edge of the water. There he crouched, either waiting for permission to board one of the boats, or for a sign of weakness. He scratched the ground absently with his curved claws, tracing nameless shapes in the dirt. Boromir had seen similar behaviour before, but never from a man. Then again, one could hardly call the Sabretooth a man. He looked more like a beast out of a child's nightmare. "Don't you remember? You were trying to kill _me_. It was all in self-defence, Jimmy."

"And whose fault was it that you kidnapped a little girl and tried to use her as a human sacrifice of some sort?" said Logan. No, he was not relenting. Boromir could tell that much by his tone. He and his brother had much to talk about, although by the sound of things, they seemed more ready to fight it out.

"It was for the greater good, Logan," growled the Sabretooth. "Look at what they did to us; to you. Those humans think we're nothin' but subjects for their twisted experiments. You can't be weak in a fight against injustice, and your tendency to attach yourself to others has done nothing but hurt you, because in the end, people will betray anyone, even those they claim to love."

"Just like the way you betrayed me, huh?" said Logan. He was growling too.

"You were in the way of the greater good. What was I supposed to do? You don't understand, Logan. I only do what I need to do to survive, just like every other person out there. And to survive, you can't be sentimental. Look where that got you. It was nowhere good, I assure you, in case you don't remember. Stryker only got you to agree to his experiment because you were so attached to that Kayla."

Logan sucked in a breath. Everything stilled. The silence was so poignant that Boromir's own breathing seemed loud to him. He waited for someone to react; well, for Logan to react. No one knew who 'Kayla' was, but he had his suspicions.

"Who's Kayla?" whispered Logan. It was the whisper of a man who was so shocked that he had lost the ability to properly utilize his voice, but it was also laced with impatience.

"I should not have said that," muttered Victor to himself. "She's no one—"

"Dammit, Victor! Tell me, or I swear to God I'll kill you here and now, brother or not!"

* * *

Logan was hardly aware of anything else. Kayla. _Kayla_. That name was so familiar, but he just couldn't put a face to it. He tried his best to control himself. 'Breathe in,' he told himself. 'And breathe out too.' His eyes never left the Sabretooth's face, and he could see the other mutant's resolution waver.

"You see?" said Victor. Logan had no idea how someone could sound satisfied and angry at the same time, but those were the vibes he was getting from his brother. "You see what I mean? You don't even know the woman, and yet you're happy to get into a fight over her. That's gonna do you no good. She's outta your life forever, Logan. Rememberin' her won't bring her back, so you might as well do yourself a favour and forget her completely. She doesn't exist anymore."

"You mean she's dead?" said Logan. Well, at least he had his answers now, even if Victor had not intended to reveal them to him. He was quite certain that the woman in his dreams had been Kayla. He'd been in love with her, and somehow, Stryker had used her against him. Why was he not surprised? It all went back to Stryker. Too bad he was already dead, because Logan would have loved to kill him again.

"Yes, I mean that," said Victor. "Look, Jimmy. It was years ago."

"It doesn't mean she should be forgotten," said Logan. "I loved her, and that means I ain't gonna forget her, no matter how many years have passed, got it? She's a person who once existed, and she deserves to be remembered by someone."

Victor was about to reply, but a loud high-pitched screech pierced the air, shattering the silence of the night.

* * *

He'd heard it once before, but that did not mean Logan was used to the sound which those cloaked black riders insisted on making. It grated on his sensitive hearing just as it had the first time he had heard it. He had not forgotten about Kayla, but she would have to wait until they'd finished dealing with that nasty ghoul or whatever it was called. As the screech faded, the flapping of wings —very large leathery wings— could be heard. A shadow passed over them, and he could feel the wind created by the wings. There was a whistle as Legolas released his arrow, and then a rasping cry as it hit whatever the elf had been aiming for.

"Holy shit!" said Logan as the thing flew away. "Was that a dragon?"

"It's not a dragon, Jimmy," drawled Victor. "It's one of Sauron's winged beasts."

"You know?" asked Aragorn. The shock was evident in his voice. Well, at least he still had a voice. Logan was too surprised to say anything. How the hell did Victor find out about Sour Ron?

"'Course I do," said the Sabretooth. He grinned, revealing sharp white teeth. It was not a friendly expression. Then again, Logan wasn't sure that Victor was capable of making friendly expressions. He simply was not a friendly person. "I'd have to be an idiot not to."

* * *

As it turned out, Victor had been in Middle Earth for years. "I came here when you threw me off the Statue of Liberty," he said to Logan. Aragorn had insisted that the Wolverine hear his brother out, and no amount of objection from Logan could change the ranger's mind. The Fellowship's leader was every bit as stubborn as the Wolverine when he wanted to be. "Saruman found me and kept me in Isengard. I was useful to 'im, bein' what I am. He had me train his troops, help keep the goblins in line. Sometimes I even led raidin' parties, but he was careful not to let me go too far, because he knew I was gonna run if I got the chance. I hated him, and the feeling was mutual."

"Yet here you are," said Boromir. He, like Logan, was rather suspicious of the newcomer, although his opinion was somewhat influenced by the Wolverine's attitude. "Roaming free."

"I ain't somethin' that you can keep behind bars," said the Sabretooth. "Ever heard of a caged sabretooth before? No, I guess not."

"That's because they all died out before cages were invented," muttered Logan, but he could easily imagine his brother breaking out of any prison. They were similar in that respect; neither the Sabretooth nor the Wolverine had any respect for authority.

"Gentlemen!" said Aragorn. "Please. This is important. I need to know what Saruman is planning, Victor, and I need you to tell me the truth."

"Why should I help you?" asked Victor. "It's not as if you trust me. Face it. You think I'm just an animal."

"I do not believe that," said Aragorn. Much to Logan's surprise, he sounded as if he meant it. "And I do want to trust you, Victor, but you have to give me a reason."

"What if I tell you that there are things following you?" said Victor, leaning in closer to the boats. A narrow stretch of water still separated them, but it wouldn't be hard for him to leap across it. "And believe me, they're out for blood. Just wait and see." He got up and brushed the leaves off himself before turning to go. "Don't worry," he called back as he disappeared into the darkness of the forest. "This isn't the last you'll see of me."

* * *

**A/N: **Still no action, but I promise there will be some soon. I hope you enjoyed the chapter.


	25. Brothers in Arms

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Darcy: **Thank you so much for your detailed reviews. They are much appreciated. I'm glad you're still enjoying the story.

**Chapter 25: Brothers in Arms**

Victor's surprising appearance did nothing to improve the mood of the company. If anything, the bad news he brought only served to make them more depressed and wary. Not that that was necessarily a bad thing, but it made them all a bit more prone to anger, especially Aragorn. His short temper was probably a side effect of the immense stress that he was sure to be feeling. If anything should happen to any of them, the ranger would blame himself. There were irresponsible men, and then there were the overly responsible. Aragorn was one of the latter.

They continued on their way down the river. The days seemed to grow darker and shorter. Middle Earth's equivalent of the Apocalypse was coming; Logan could feel it, quite literally. He had been able to hear the Ring's voice ever since he had first seen it, but now, it was becoming louder. Only the resurfacing of jumbled memories and his determination not to be possessed by some bloody piece of bling managed to keep it at bay. The others heard it too; it was not hard to tell. Most of them looked as if they hadn't slept well for many days. Frodo's back was bent as if there was a tremendous weight on his shoulders, or in this case, hanging from his neck. As for the others, they were very quiet, for they were all occupied with their own concerns.

The silence did not sit well with the Wolverine. He needed distractions, damn it! He didn't want to think about those emerging memories all the time, and he especially did not want to think about the Ring and what would happen if they failed to destroy it. If only Victor would show himself right now. Logan would get into a fight with him right there and then. That was much better than just sitting there and rowing. No, he was not going to think about rowing; at least, not directly. Words began to form in his mind. Who knew that he was creative? He certainly hadn't, until now.

_Row, row, row your boat quickly down the stream. Hurry, hurry, hurry, hurry, or we're gonna die._

All right, so that wasn't exactly original, nor did it rhyme, but it was more suitable than the other version was for their situation. He wasn't sure when he had started humming, but soon the song would not get out of his head, and it was getting annoying, not to mention embarrassing. He saw Legolas glance back at him with a strange look on his face. That elf must have heard the overly cheerful tune, and was wondering what had gotten into the Wolverine. No, he had to change the song. Anything...anything... No, no wheels and buses; that one was worse, especially since they didn't have buses in Middle Earth. God, his line of thought was going off in a strange direction. Well, at least it wasn't a morbid direction. That had to count for something, right?

They were approaching a part of the river where there were two giant cliffs on either side. As he drew closer to them, Logan found more signs that a great civilization once existed here. In fact, this had to be one of the most impressive civilizations he had ever seen; compared to this, Paris would seem like a village and the pyramids of Egypt would look like childlike constructions. Not that he'd seen them in real life, but they seemed very simple in comparison to what he was seeing now.

Two statues, possibly of ancient kings, loomed over them. Both of them were as tall as a sky scraper, but they had more detail than any sky scraper would ever have. The folds in their robes were so realistic that from a distance, they seemed to be cloth instead of stone. Even more impressive was the fact that their arms hadn't fallen off in the manner of most ancient statues in Logan's world. One was bearded, while the other was a stern-faced young man. Their aquiline noses and intense gazes reminded him a lot of Aragorn, actually, despite the fact that Aragorn was a great deal scruffier than these two gentlemen. They held out their hands, as if indicating that travellers should go no further than that point. It wasn't hard to see why.

Beyond them was a thundering waterfall. White water cascaded down into unfathomable depths. Well, probably not unfathomable, but Logan had no desire to look down to see just how high the waterfall was. Another image flashed before his eyes. He'd jumped naked off a waterfall before? How could he have forgotten that? And why the hell had he been naked? He was more sensible than that, wasn't he? It wasn't that he was embarrassed or anything, but jumping off a waterfall without any clothes seemed a bit too risky, even for the Wolverine.

Aragorn's voice pulled him out of his reverie. The Argonath. What was that? Logan knew that argon was one of the elements listed in the periodic table; subbing for chemistry class had taught him that much. So why was Aragorn talking about chemistry? It was completely irrelevant. "These are the kings of old," the ranger continued. "I have long desired to look upon them. My kin."

"You mean these are long lost relatives of yours?" asked Logan. "Man, they must have been loaded."

"Of course they were rich," said Aragorn drily. "They were kings. One would expect a king to be rich."

"Wait...your long lost relatives were kings?" said Logan. This defied all belief. If Aragorn's long lost relatives were kings, then...yes, he had heard them mention it a few times, but he'd never really realized the implications before. Aragorn was royalty. Didn't they call him the heir of something? What if he was the heir to some throne or something? "If you're royalty, then I'm bloody Caesar!" he blurted out, unable to control his shock.

"I do not know what a 'see-sar' is," said Aragorn, "but yes, no matter how hard it is to believe, my ancestors were kings. I shall leave you to decide what I am."

"You really are serious about this, aren't you?" whispered Logan. Who else was going to spring a surprise on him like that? Legolas was a prince, Boromir was the commander of a kingdom's armed forces, and now Aragorn was royalty. "Okay, so I have a question. What does argon have to do with this?"

* * *

They went on shore shortly after passing the Argonath, which turned out to be the name of the two statues, and had nothing to do with Chemistry. Legolas had returned from scouting the area, and although he had found no signs of threats, he was still eager to leave as soon as possible. It had something to do with some elven sixth sense or something rather. However, the others were not so keen on leaving just yet. They were tired, and it was good to be able to rest on land for once. The hobbits had built up a fire, and they were cooking some of the perishable supplies which the elves had given them. Logan sat at the base of a tree, leaning against the trunk and taking the chance to catch a snatch or two of sleep. He hadn't slept very well in the small boat. With so many people keeping watch, it was highly unlikely that they were going to be attacked without warning.

The others were discussing their next course of action, but since he didn't know anything about Middle Earth, it would be a waste of energy to try and contribute. Besides, he would only distract them. They were still arguing when he drifted off. Boromir wanted to go to Gondor, but Aragorn was reluctant. Legolas just wanted to go somewhere instead of staying here, and Gimli was not pleased about the prospect of having to pass through a labyrinth of rocks and some marshes. Nothing too interesting, really. He was dreaming of having breakfast back at Xavier's when he heard panicked shouts. Someone shook his shoulder. "Logan, wake up, laddie." Logan blinked a couple of times, and then looked up to see Gimli's bearded face.

"Huh?" said Logan. "What's goin' on?"

"Frodo's missing," said the dwarf.

"He went off somewhere? When?" asked Logan.

"He has been gone for the past hour and a half," said Legolas. "I thought you would have heard."

"I might've, but I was kinda not listening," said Logan. This was embarrassing. He had the best hearing in all of the company, and yet he hadn't been aware of anything. Some Wolverine he was. "Where are all the others?"

"Searching for Frodo," said Gimli. "The lad wanted some time by himself to think, and then everyone went about their own business. He was supposed to be back in half an hour."

Logan got up and turned his head a few times to get the cricks out of his neck. His bones clicked. "So, we're spreading out, are we?" he said. "You sure that's a good idea? Victor said that there were things out there, not that I believe him that much, but still."

"We do not have a choice," said Legolas. There was no lightness in the elven prince's tone.

"I suppose we don't," conceded Logan. "Don't worry. We'll get him back. He can't have gone that far, and his trail's still fresh enough."

* * *

He could hear It in his head; Its unceasing whispers, Its beguiling promises. He could be great, It said. He could save Gondor, if only he would take It and use It. Boromir of Gondor was a strong man, but even he could not hold out against such an assault of temptation. Yet, he had stopped himself from simply reaching out to take the Ring, because that was the right thing to do. Deep down in his heart, he knew what would happen if he should give into the temptation and take the Ring. All around him were signs which reminded him; the fallen statues, kings of stone without their heads. This would be Gondor if he failed to destroy the Dark Lord and his forces. Taking the Ring would only hasten the fall of his country. He knew it, and yet sometimes, he could not help but wonder and doubt the wisdom of Elrond and Gandalf. What if one man could prove to be strong enough to wield the Ring? What then?

'It is trying to take over your mind,' he told himself. 'Just like those 'telepaths' that Logan frequently talks about.' Speaking with the strange man had helped him somewhat. He never mentioned the Ring to Logan, but the man had been able to help him understand something about dealing with such manipulations of the mind. If someone had the ability to convince Logan that he was a six year old girl, which he definitely was not, then it was not so hard to imagine that Sauron would be able to convince him that he would be able to wield the Ring in order to corrupt him and use him against those who would seek to destroy the Dark Lord.

Boromir came to a clearing. There was Frodo. He was studying the face of another ancient statue. Most of the features had been eroded from exposure to the elements. It was hard to tell whether the face was male or female. "Frodo?" said the Gondorian. The hobbit whipped around, clearly surprised. His hand flew to the hilt of his sword. Boromir held up his hands to show that he meant no harm. Days of carrying the Bane of Isildur had changed the hobbit. He now seemed wary of everyone, even those whom he used to trust with his life. In recent days, he'd brushed off Sam's concerned queries, and he had hardly spoken to anyone.

"You should not be out here alone," said the Gondorian. "There is danger out here."

'_Danger?'_ said a voice inside Boromir's head. It was a strange voice, calm and beguiling, and yet it seemed familiar. _'Perhaps to the hapless Halfling, but this is the perfect opportunity for you, Boromir of Gondor. Now you can truly save your country. There is no one to stop you from doing what you know is right. You have to use It. There is no other way. Just take it. You know you can_.' He stilled, feeling unusually lightheaded. Frodo must have noticed the change in his stance, for the hobbit backed away from him.

"Don't come any closer," said Frodo. His eyes were wide as he scrambled for cover behind a fallen statue. Boromir paid his request no heed.

"Am I a bandit or a thief?" asked the Gondorian. He increased the length of his strides. "Why do you run?" It was most insulting. He was Boromir, Captain of Gondor and commander of her armies. Who was this Halfling to treat him thus? His anger surprised him. Why was he feeling like this? He had never thought of his rank, ever since he had joined this company. They were all his equals, as far as he was concerned, so why the sudden change of attitude? It wasn't rational, and he knew it, and he didn't know what had brought on all this anger. He didn't even know he had it in him to be so petty.

"You are not yourself," said Frodo, staring at the great warrior in front of him. Boromir could almost smell the fear emanating from him. Wait...since when was he able smell fear? That was Logan's specialty. Something was definitely wrong. Very wrong. Yet, he couldn't seem to control himself. It was as if something else had overrun his mind and was now controlling his body.

"I ask for nothing but to borrow the Ring. It would be folly to throw away our last thread of hope, and you know it, Frodo." His rational side knew that he was spouting the most outrageous nonsense, but he couldn't control himself. He was confused. The sound of blood rushing through his ears drowned out everything except for the voices inside his head, and they were loud. They clouded his judgement until he no longer knew what he was thinking.

"No," said the Halfling. "You do not know of what you speak."

"Just give me the Ring." He stretched out his hand.

"No," Frodo repeated, in a firmer and colder tone this time. That was the last straw. Boromir was not used to being refused, and in this state of mind, his rage spilled over at this blatant refusal. He lunged at the Halfling, who was not able to get out of the way quickly enough. They tumbled to the ground in a heap.

Valar, what was he doing? He'd sworn an oath to protect the Ringbearer, and he'd broken it. The shock of the revelation cleared his mind, and for one brief moment, he was in control again. He flung himself off the terrified hobbit, and that gave Frodo just enough time to slip the Ring onto his finger and disappear.

His heartbeat sounded like the Haradrim's war drums to his ears. What had he done? He could hardly dare to believe it. It was as if this was all a bad dream. The voices in his head were gone now, save for one. It was himself, his rational side, berating him for what he had done. He was a warrior who had broken his oath; he'd lost his honour. For a long while, he stared at his hands, wishing that it was not true. He saw the images repeating themselves over and over again inside his mind. There was wetness on his face. Tears of shame.

* * *

Logan could follow trails well enough, not because he was observant and good at seeing signs and clues in the ground, but because he had an excellent sense of smell. The air was heavy with the scent of leaf mould and wet stone, but that was only to be expected. They were in a forest full of ruins, after all. His ears twitched. It was not something which he heard, but rather what he didn't hear. Where were all the birds? All forests had birds, and those were noisy animals. They were always chirping, squawking, chattering... just like his students. To shut up a bird was just like trying to make a teenager shut up—impossible. So the absence of squawking could only mean one thing. The birds were hiding from something, and it wasn't him.

He sniffed again. There was the scent of faecal matter and old blood, as well as fresh sweat. Non-human. Wait...fresh sweat? That meant that whoever was producing the sweat was very close. He turned his head slowly, trying to locate the source of the smell. There; the smell wasn't any stronger, but he could hear the sound of metal grating against metal. Whoever it was, they were trying to be quiet, but they had not counted on meeting the Wolverine. The claws shot out—all six of them at the same time. The Wolverine let out the guttural roar of an enraged predator just as he whipped around to face an entire band of orcs. Well, he thought they were orcs, although they looked different, not that he was going to waste time in seeing just how they were different from the hundred or so other orcs he'd seen—and killed. He didn't wait for them to attack him. The best defence was always an offence.

* * *

The sound of battle nearby dragged Boromir out of his sombre thoughts. He lifted his head so that he might better hear it. Something was charging through the undergrowth. The shouts of panicking hobbits could be heard. Merry and Pippin. They were in danger. He might have failed Frodo, but he was not going to fail anyone else ever again. He leapt to his feet. Desperation lent him speed. He jumped over fallen logs and statues. The only thing on his mind were those hobbits. He was getting closer to them now. There, he could see them running over a stone bridge which stretched over the tiniest stream. Behind them were creatures which should only belong in a man's nightmare. They were orcs; there was no doubt about that, but they were much larger than any orc Boromir had ever encountered. Helmets of iron hid their black leathery faces, and on them, and their breastplates, there was a crudely painted white hand. Saruman.

Boromir rushed to meet those creatures head on, not caring how suicidal this whole plan was—not that he had a plan beyond killing as many of these as he could. His sword pierced the leather gambeson of one of those beasts, entering flesh before embedding itself in bone. The creature fell with a gurgle. Black blood bubbled out from its mouth. There was no time to pull out his sword. Ducking the swipe of an axe, he grabbed the shaft of said axe, and bodily wrested it away from its wielder. "Retreat!" he shouted to Merry and Pippin. The two of them had been rooted to the ground in shock, but at the sound of his voice, they suddenly realized where they were, and they wasted no time in obeying Boromir's sound advice.

The axe was a cumbersome weapon, or so Boromir had always thought, and a badly forged one was even more so. With a cry, he threw the axe at the horde of oncoming orcs. The weapon spun lazily in the air as it flew in an arc, and then it embedded itself in the head of one of the dark charging creatures. Blood and pale matter flew out as it fell to the ground. Its body rolled down the gentle slope, and then came to rest in a pile of leaves in the bottom.

Its death seemed to distract its companions, but only for a moment. Boromir pulled his sword out of the first orc. A chorus of angry roars reverberated through the forest as the others turned their attentions to the man who had slain two of their number already. If he was going to successfully save Merry and Pippin, then he was going to need reinforcements. Yanking the Horn of Gondor from his belt, he put it to his lips and let out three sharp blasts. It was said that whenever that horn was blown within the borders of the Old Kingdom, aid would come. He hoped that the legend was true, or else he was 'screwed', as Logan would so poetically put it. Valar, even if no one else heard it, Logan would, wouldn't he? Boromir wasn't too proud to deny the fact that he really wanted that man here right now. Those six claws would be very helpful.

* * *

Who the hell was playing the trumpet? It wasn't as if they had time for music right now. Logan's claws sliced through the neck of one of the giant orcs. Their armour did nothing against his adamantium. Black blood sprayed onto his face. He spat as some of it got into his mouth. Without slowing down for even the briefest moment, he whipped around and plunged those deadly lengths of metal into the bellies of two orcs simultaneously, and then flung their corpses at their charging companions, knocking them over.

Orcs were swarming the forest like ants. Great big bloody ants. The trumpet sounded again. Wait, that wasn't a trumpet. That was...what was it...a horn! Why would there be a horn out here? Didn't Boromir have a horn? Oh God, that was a call for help. He propelled himself into the air. He wasn't the world's best jumper, but he was good enough, and that adamantium skeleton meant that he gained a lot of momentum when he fell.

The Wolverine crashed into six orcs, knocking them all to the ground. Two of them were unfortunate enough to find his claws embedded in their heads. "Those dorky helmet aren't much good," he said as he yanked out his claws. There was no time to bother with the rest of the orcs here, not when his friend needed help.

—

These orcs were strong. In fact, they were stronger than anything else Boromir had ever fought, not counting trolls. He was so occupied with fighting that he did not notice a lone archer standing at the edge of the melee until it was too late. The black projectile cut through the air. Pain slammed into the Gondorian, and he stumbled backwards. A short cry of pain escaped his lips and he fell onto one knee. For a moment, he was unable to move, so great as the pain was. He could feel hot blood trickling down his now useless left arm. Merry and Pippin were standing close by, their shock evident. However, the valiant hobbits were brandishing their swords —although what effect their short blades would have on the giant orcs were debatable— and trying their best to defend their wounded comrade. Their enemies were closing in on them. Obviously, they felt that they had victory now, and that wasn't far from the truth. With the only professional warrior crippled, it was only a matter of time before the orcs got what they were after.

Boromir forced himself to stand. No one would touch the hobbits, not while he still had some fight left in him, and it took a lot more than just one arrow to take the fight out of a Gondorian soldier. He parried an orc's wide swing, expertly twisting out of the way so that the crude blade missed him entirely. His wounded side was open, he knew, and therein lay most of his problems. The orcs could see his handicap, and they were exploiting it to their own advantage, as soldiers worth their bread would.

Behind him, he heard Merry and Pippin. The hobbits were angry—it sounded strange, for he had never seen or heard a truly infuriated hobbit before. However, their bravery was not enough, for they were too small and too inexperienced. He tried his best to defend them, but it was futile, for there were too many enemies for him to deal with all at the same time. He didn't like to admit it, but even he had a limit, despite what his people might think. A crude axe connected with his blade. The force of the impact drove him backwards. He stumbled, but there was no time to waste. Orcs had separated Merry and Pippin from him, and although they put up a struggle, it wasn't so hard for those foul creatures to capture them.

The Gondorian could not bear the thought of those merry folk suffering just because he had failed to protect them. He knew orcs, and the thought of what they could do to the hobbits made his anger overflow. With one last burst of strength, he threw himself at those gathered around the two hobbits. The sudden surprise scattered the orcs, but not for long. A shield slammed into his body, knocking him over. The impact snapped the arrow in his shoulder, causing him to cry out. He rolled aside just in time to avoid a falling blade, and then picked himself up again. With such a disadvantage, he knew that there was no way he could survive this if reinforcements did not come soon. Still, he fought, trying to reach the hobbits, but in vain, for they were being borne away. Their shouts became fainter and fainter until he could no longer hear them. One of his opponents bodily threw him against the trunk of a tree and pinned him there. He was stunned for a moment, and that lapse seemed to be enough time for the orc to deliver the killing blow. Almost. There was a low vibrating growl, and then something huge leapt out from the undergrowth and sent the orc flying.

This might not be the clawed man Boromir had been hoping to see, but he was a clawed man nonetheless; that had to count for something.

* * *

The first thing Logan saw was Victor leaping out of the undergrowth. That was enough for him. He still didn't trust his brother, for obvious reasons, and if he even looked like he was a threat to any member of the Fellowship —which he probably was, considering the fact he could hear Boromir, Merry and Pippin as well as the Sabretooth's ferocious sounding growls—, then Logan saw it as his responsibility to deal with the very dangerous mutant.

Charging through the forest, he lunged at Victor. The two of them crashed to the ground in a heap of tangled limps and flashing claws. Well, Logan's claws were flashing; Victor's claws were not shiny enough to do that.

Victor threw Logan off him, only to have the Wolverine take a swipe at him with those lethal claws of his. Logan wasn't sure whether he was imagining it or not, but ever since his memories had started resurfacing, he seemed to have become a much better fighter. There was some form of technique and style now, instead of raw animalistic rage. Were these old memories too? Ah, well, he really didn't give a damn. If he used to fight this well and it was all coming back, then it was all good. If not...well, at least he was good now.

"Jimmy—" began Victor, but he was cut off as Logan charged at him again, all six claws aiming for his chest. He ducked just in time and then bodily threw himself at his younger brother, knocking him off his feet. Unfortunately, Logan was set on finishing off his brother this time. Since throwing him off tall structures did not work, he would have to resort to something more drastic. He lashed out. Wind whistled as his claws cut through the air.

"Logan!" Victor caught his arm just in time. The two of them wrestled. Logan was determined to stick his claws somewhere, and Victor was just as determined to make sure that he did not succeed. "Logan, you're fighting the wrong guy!" Logan only snarled in reply. The claws of his other hand came up. Victor only managed to evade them before he was gutted. "Jesus Christ, Logan! I'm on your side!"

"To hell you are—whaddya mean you're on my side?"

"Well I sure as hell ain't on theirs!" Victor jerked his head in the direction of the orcs, and Logan realized how badly his judgment had lapsed, for although many of the orcs seemed to have disappeared, there was still a copious number of them left. They had surrounded Boromir. The Gondorian's left arm hung uselessly by his side, although he was still putting up a darn good fight, and the Wolverine could smell blood; human blood.

"I ain't done yet, Victor," said Logan. He shoved his brother away, and then, in a manner which would be called suicidal by most, he lunged at those armoured dark creatures and bodily threw himself at them.

The impact knocked a few orcs off their feet, and two of the unfortunate ones found themselves stuck on the end of the Wolverine's claws. With a disgusted snarl, Logan yanked out his claws. The corpses fell and landed with muted thuds. Thick black blood flew from the ends of the lengths of metal as he whipped around to behead another creature who had dared to try and attack him. Victor was doing his part, almost gleefully breaking spines and throwing away crumpled bodies as if they were nothing more than dolls; very ugly dolls.

A sword came down, and he only managed to block it in time. His claws sliced through the crudely crafted blade. One of the pieces barely missed his eye. The sharp edge glanced off his forehead, slicing through skin and revealing the sheen of metal underneath. The wound closed just as quickly as it had been created, not even leaving a scar behind. All that remained was a single drop of red. Logan did not so much as slow down. Taking advantage of the orc's surprise, he stabbed the creature in the head. Bone splintered as the lengths of metal pierced through the skull.

"Logan, the hobbits!" cried Boromir over the din of battle. "They have taken the little ones!"

Logan let out a stream of profanities—even he wasn't sure whether he was cursing at the fact that the hobbits had been taken prisoner or whether he was simply swearing because these orcs were proving to be harder to kill than most things he had ever come across. Well, he could only deal with one thing at a time, and no matter what the Gondorian said, he was not going to leave his friend here, as injured as he was. The two of them fought back to back; it was a little difficult to manage since one of them was injured and their styles were so different.

Another arrow flew at them; damn that archer! Everything was moving too quickly. The dark projectile was heading straight for the injured Gondorian. Without thinking, Logan pushed his friend aside, and thus put himself straight in the arrow's path. It seemed as if the arrow would hit him —not that it would matter in the long-term. However, the Wolverine had no desire to get shot, especially not when he could so easily avoid it.

The arrow shattered on his claws and the pieces dropped harmlessly to the ground, much to the surprise and discuss of the archer.

"Well done!" called Victor. When did he get over here? Ah well, Logan was just glad that they were all in some sort of tight formation. That always worked better. As if he had read his mind, the Sabretooth winked. "You ready, Jimmy?" It was hard for Logan to see his expression clearly without turning his head —and that would be most unbeneficial in a situation like this— but he could hear the grin in his brother's voice. "This is just like old times, innit?"

"I got no idea what you're on about," said Logan through gritted teeth. He didn't mind fighting, but the Sabretooth had no right to be so bloody cheerful about it. His friends were in danger; one of them was badly injured, and two of them had been kidnapped—or hobbit-napped, rather. There was nothing to grin about. Then again, from what he remembered, Victor had always been an insensitive bastard. He couldn't change the way his brain was structured. Besides, help was very welcome. Fighting to protect himself was one thing. Fighting to protect others was another, and Logan knew from experience that the latter was more difficult.

"Y'know, Jimmy, I sometimes wonder how we always get ourselves into situations like this," Victor continued as the orcs closed in on them. Their shields were ready, and their weapons were raised. Numbers meant something to them, and they seemed quite certain that they would be able to massacre this group of bedraggled and exhausted people. In normal circumstances, they would probably be right, but these were not normal circumstances. Just as Middle Earth had never encountered orcs such as these, no inhabitant in Middle Earth had encountered mutants of Logan and Victor's calibre either. Saruman might know a little about the Sabretooth, but he did not know enough to be prepared, and the wizard certainly hadn't planned on having the two clawed brothers fight for the Fellowship.

"Let's do this," said Logan. Despite the hopelessness of their situation, the Sabretooth's morbidly upbeat attitude was infectious. Maybe survival wasn't so improbable after all.

* * *

The sense of failure weighed down on him heavily even as he cut down uncounted numbers of those foul creatures. There seemed to be no end to them; they were a mass of seething black bodies, surging around him, determined to block his way. Under his guidance, everything had fallen apart. He had no plan, now. A plan was not going to help him. He had not been prepared for this. None of them had been. Would that Gandalf were here. Surely the wizard would not have made the terrible blunder of disregarding an elf's premonitions.

Anduril sang as the blade sliced through the air and flesh of his enemy. Aragorn paid no heed to the blood which splattered onto his face and hands. There was only one thing on his mind, for he had heard the short blasts from the horn of Gondor. They had all heard it, and right now, Legolas and Gimli were bringing up the rear as he, their leader, tried to reach the others on time. He prayed that he was not too late, for it had been a while since the horn had sounded.

The ground became sloped. The ranger made his way uphill, for that was where most of the sounds of battle were coming from. There were no more horn blasts, and dread was growing in his heart. The leaves on the ground made the slope slippery, and there were a couple of times when he almost stumbled. Determination drove him on. He would not fail Gandalf; he refused to. The wizard had passed on this responsibility to him, and Aragorn was a man of his word. He had given Gandalf his promise.

At the top of the rise, he was able to see everything. Boromir, Logan and Victor fought back to back. The two brothers were so coordinated that they seemed to be able to anticipate each others' moves, and therefore they were able to collaborate with deadly effectiveness. However, Boromir was the weak point of their formation. The ranger could see that he was wounded from the way he moved. In fact, he was quite certain that if the Gondorian was not so proud, he would have collapsed long ago. Of Merry and Pippin there was no sign.

The ranger charged down the slope with a roar. The layer of dust and blood on Anduril masked the blade's deadly gleam, but that did not make the vision any less impressive.

"If you'd been any later, you'd have missed the thing entirely!" shouted Logan as a way of greeting. The man was covered in orc blood. He pulled back as an orc struck out with its shield, but then he caught the shield with his claws. They raked through the flat beaten iron as if it was merely a piece of parchment. The orcs surged forward like waves, but each wave grew weaker as the defenders picked them off one by one.

Another arrow whistled through the air, but this one had yellow fletching instead of black.

"Well, it's about time!" called Logan.

* * *

The ground was strewn with the bodies of their slain enemies. Black blood soaked the earth, and crows and ravens were already gathering in the surrounding trees. "They have taken Merry and Pippin!" gasped Boromir as Aragorn helped him —made him— sit down at the base of one of the trees. His blood-soaked clothing was cut away to reveal the deep wound in his shoulder. The arrow had missed his lung by just an inch, but he had still lost a lot of blood. Boromir licked his pale dry lips."Where is Frodo?" he demanded. When the ranger did not answer, he tried to get up, only to be pushed down again.

Aragorn looked around. He had sent Logan and Gimli off to fetch water and firewood, while Legolas and Victor were supposed to go and search for medicinal plants in the immediate area. Well, as long as they were not within earshot, then he was content, because he suspected that Boromir would appreciate it if the conversation they were about to have remained private. "I let him go," said the ranger.

"Then you are a better man than I could ever be," said the wounded man. "I tried to take _it_ from him, after I swore an oath to protect him."

"He told me, Boromir," said Aragorn, "but you should not blame yourself. The Ring has ever sought to corrupt the minds of men. Frodo also told me of how you fought its call to the end, even pulling yourself away. You have nothing to be ashamed of."

"But I have failed him, and everyone else," said the Gondorian. He sucked in air through his teeth as the ranger probed the wound with gentle fingers. The injury was deep, and only a stump of the arrow remained. "I have failed Merry and Pippin."

"No, you have not," said Aragorn. The arrow would have to be pushed out, and if they were fortunate, the wound would not have been contaminated. "You fought to defend them to the best of your ability. No one could have asked for more."

Boromir shook his head, but as he was about to say something else, the others returned.

Aragorn set about treating Boromir's wound, and the topic was dropped for a moment as they all did their part to try and help their wounded friend. The arrow was removed with difficulty, for there was not much left to work with. "Well, it's not poisoned," said Victor, picking up the discarded arrow stump and sniffing it. "That's a silver lining, at least."

They fashioned a makeshift sling out of torn blankets, and then Boromir was persuaded to drink a rather unappetizing broth which Logan had made with what dried meat they had. Most of their seasonings had been in Sam's pack, and Sam was inconveniently missing.

"Jimmy, this is foul," said Victor. Unlike the others, he had no qualms about criticizing the Wolverine. He was his brother, after all.

"You try becoming an impromptu chef, then, if you're so good at it," growled Logan. He glared at the Sabretooth. "Besides, I wasn't really concentratin'. I was thinkin' 'bout somethin' else. One of the boats is missing. Frodo and Sam took it, and they've rowed themselves across the river. I don't think that's part of the plan."

"There was never a set plan, Logan," said Aragorn. "And that is the best course of action for them to take. We should just let them go. The Ringbearer's fate is out of our hands now."

"But..." began Logan. For once, he had no opinion, at least not one which he could express with any sort of coherence. He wasn't quite sure he supported Aragorn's decision, but he had no reason not to. Even when Frodo had been here with them, they had not been able to protect him adequately. Who was to say that he wouldn't be better off without them?

"Do we just leave him then?" asked Legolas. "He cannot do this alone."

"He is not alone," said Aragorn. "Have you forgotten? Sam went with him."

"But that isn't enough," said Gimli. "Sam is a loyal hobbit, but can he defend the Ringbearer?"

"We can only trust in their strength," said Aragorn. "As I have said, this is the best path."

"So it has all been for nothing," said the dwarf. "This company has failed."

"No," said Aragorn. "I will not have you lose hope. Frodo chose to set off on his own. As for us, we cannot leave Merry and Pippin to torment and death at the hands of their captors." The ranger stood, and they all looked up at him. His face was set with determination, and for a moment, Logan could actually envisage him as some sort of ancient king, maybe Middle Earth's King Arthur. There was a gleam in his eye. A hunter's gleam. At once, Logan was on his feet, as were the others, even Boromir. Only Victor remained completely unaffected, not that it surprised anyone; he was extremely hard to impress. All their attention was on the ranger now. Logan's excitement was building. Yes, he knew what Aragorn wanted to do, and the ranger had his complete support. "We are going to follow them. Take only what you need. We travel light—"

"Let's kick some ass!" declared the Wolverine.

* * *

**A/N: A very long chapter, this. I couldn't find the right place to end. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it. This is ploughing straight into extremely AU territory. I've never done something so daring before, and it's exciting, although a bit scary. **


	26. The Hunt

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything that you recognize. **

**Redone: **I'm really quite scared about what's going to happen now that Boromir is alive. As for Victor, he's quite unpredictable. I'm glad you're still enjoying the story.

**Rae: **I have no idea where this is going, especially since Victor isn't on anyone's side but his own. It's exciting and frightening at the same time to think of just what he might do.

**i: **The problem with Logan is not being a mere tag-along. He has the potential to botch up things completely for Middle Earth, and with Victor here. Well...

_Thanks for the reviews, everyone. I really appreciate them. _

**Chapter 26: The Hunt**

Kicking ass in Middle Earth was a lot more difficult than it was back in the States, Logan soon discovered. For one, there was the problem of finding asses to kick, and unfortunately, those orcs were very fast. They had been running for a day without stopping. Well, sometimes those at the back, namely Logan, Boromir —who had an excuse because he was wounded—, and Gimli slowed down to a walk, which meant that Aragorn and Legolas often left them behind. In actuality, it wasn't that Logan couldn't catch up with the others if he had really wanted to, but he was worried about his wounded friend. He had seen the effect of blood loss on normal humans, and he didn't want Boromir to over-exert himself, just in case.

The Wolverine kept on glancing at Boromir. The Gondorian's face was pale, but the look on his face suggested that no matter how exhausted he was, he was not going to give up the chase until he found those two hobbits, or until he died. Considering their situation, the latter was much more likely. Logan was no doctor, but he knew that people should rest after losing so much blood. He didn't have to do that, because he never lost too much, but that was him. Aragorn knew that too, but he had not been able to persuade Boromir that it might not be a good idea for him to join in the chase. The Gondorian had simply insisted that he was fine, since it was his shoulder which was wounded, and not his leg. Still, no one truly believed him.

At least they weren't going to lose track of their prey anytime soon; the orcs had left a very clear trail for them to follow. First, it was crushed undergrowth, and now it was an obvious scent trail and scratched rock. He just hoped that Merry and Pippin would still be alive when they finally caught up with the orcs. Logan liked to be optimistic when he could, especially about his own abilities to carry out a successful operation of the violent kind, but he was under no illusions here. He didn't know what the orcs wanted with the two hobbits, and for all he knew, they just wanted food.

"Breathe!" Gimli kept on telling himself as he clambered over the rocky terrain. "Breathe!"

"Y'know," said Logan rather breathlessly. This wasn't the most taxing march he had ever been on, but it had to number amongst one of the worst. Really, did Aragorn and Legolas have to be so fast? How did they have that much stamina anyway? Well, Legolas was unnatural, but Aragorn was still human, wasn't he? "It would be easier if you didn't talk." It occurred to him that he was being hypocritical, since he was talking, but this was a one-off; it wasn't as if he was going to keep up a running commentary about...running after orcs. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Right. Left. Right. Left. It was slightly better when he concentrated on the rhythm of running instead of the burning lungs or the stitch in his side. Despite the chilly wind, he was sweating profusely. His jacket was tied around his waist, and the sword Galadriel had given him was now strapped to his back instead of his hip. It was much better that way, since it had kept on bumping against his leg.

Beside him, Boromir just kept his eyes focused on the terrain before him. Occasionally, he stumbled —although they all did that once in a while, so it wasn't really anything to be alarmed about— but he righted himself without any help. That was one proud man; there was no denying that. He had not spoken much at all. In fact, ever since they'd started the chase, he hadn't spoken at all. It was probably a wise thing to do, but it was unnatural to remain silent for so long, or so Logan felt. Humans —and mutants, to some extent— tended to be sociable. Right, so there were exceptions, and he was one of them, but still, he didn't go through entire days without speaking to anyone. Even during his loneliest years, right after he'd lost his memories, he'd at least cursed at people once a day, and he'd had other forms of human interaction, such as fighting.

Speaking of fighting, if things continued like this, by the time they found the orcs, they would be in no shape to fight. Logan sincerely hoped that someone had a strategy, or at least some sort of plan —going in there and killing as whoever got in their way did not count, even if it was simple.

* * *

Clambering over rocks was hard work, especially if one had his arm in a sling; still, Boromir didn't let on that he was having difficulties. He was not the sort of man who complained about anything, and he could see that the others were worried enough already. Logan, in particular, was being extremely protective. If he had been in any other situation, he would have been amused, because the Wolverine was behaving rather like a mother hen. It made for an entertaining image. Too bad he didn't have enough breath to laugh. Nor was he in the mood, really. Every time he thought of those poor hobbits, his heart clenched. No, he would get them back, even if it killed him.

Aragorn and Legolas had stopped, probably to wait for them. They had come to a wide dry plain dotted with tussocks. The hilly rocky terrain had ended. Now they were faced with miles upon miles of gentle grassy slopes. It heartened him somewhat to see familiar country again, although he wasn't sure if he could run over all of that. "We have come to the land of Rohan!" called Aragorn. "It is known as the home of the Horselords!"

"Lots of horses here, huh?" said Logan.

"Indeed," said the ranger.

"Oh, lovely," said the Wolverine. He said it without rolling his eyes, causing Boromir to raise his eyebrow; if he had been less exhausted, he would have done more than just that, but he had little enough strength as it was. Everyone knew how well Logan got on with all things equine —as in very badly— and he had expected some form of rant.

"I like races," said the Wolverine with a shrug. "Kinda a bit wrong to think about such things at a time like this, but that's just me. Besides, horses mean transport, right?"

"Do you even know how to ride, Jimmy?" said Victor. The large man crossed his arms and glanced at his younger brother sideways, taunting him. In return, Logan scowled at him. Well, they definitely weren't reconciled yet, and at this rate, Boromir wondered if they ever would be. He wasn't familiar with such animosity between two brothers. And from what he knew of their past —which, admittedly, was not a lot—, they had sounded so close. What had happened to tear them apart? He couldn't imagine being so hostile to Faramir.

"It can't be that hard, can it?" said the Wolverine. "I mean, I once rode on top of a helicopter, if I remember correctly."

"That's rich, coming from someone who's lost his memory," said Victor. Logan, who had no response to that, resorted to growling.

"Gentlemen, please," said Aragorn. "There is no time for such petty arguments, and even if Logan could ride, there is no time for us to search out horses. The nearest settlement could be days away."

"Rohan does not even have the population of Manhattan," Victor informed Logan. Boromir guessed that it was supposed to mean something, because Logan raised an eyebrow in what could be termed as utter disbelief.

"You've gotta be kiddin' me, right?" he said. "I mean, this is a country, not a town. Mind you, Manhattan is rather big."

Perhaps Victor would have deigned to reply, or perhaps not. At any rate, he didn't get a chance, for Legolas had gone on ahead onto the highest outcrop of rock, and all attention had turned to the elf. "Legolas, what do you see?" called Aragorn.

"The orcs are turning north-west!" replied the elf. "They certainly are wasting no time in returning to the one who sent them."

"Saruman's treachery runs deeply indeed," said the ranger, partly to himself and partly to the others. "We must make haste."

* * *

The breeze was blowing towards them. Logan suddenly stopped in his tracks, as did Victor. The two brothers glanced at each other; they were both thinking, or rather, smelling the same thing. Blood, possibly only a few hours old. Well, less than thirty-six hours. Logan sniffed again, this time analysing the scent with more care. No, most of it not hobbit blood, although there was the faintest whiff of that in the wind as well; not enough to raise alarm. That had to be a good thing, right? Still, he couldn't stop his heartbeat from suddenly racing. The new revelation gave him a sudden burst of speed, and before anyone could ask him what was going on, he surged on ahead, following the scent. He could hear the others hurrying to follow him; they trusted his senses and his instincts. They had never failed him before, and they were not likely to do so now.

Soon, they came upon the source of the smell. The ground was soaked with dark blood. Crows scattered in a flurry of black feathers as the company approached the site of carnage, cawing and scolding. A few dark bodies lay dismembered on the ground. Some of the limbs showed signs of having been gnawed on. Glistening ropes of intestines spilled from opened bellies, and were strewn everywhere.

"Oh," said Victor. Did he actually sound disappointed? "From the smell of it, I'd thought there would be more."

"So, what's the verdict?" asked Logan as he watched Aragorn examine the ground. When it came to following and finding things, he was by far the superior, but he had to concede that Aragorn was the better tracker. The ranger could read evidence as if it was an open book. He would have made a good detective.

"I don't know what you mean," said Aragorn, not even taking the time to look up at him. He unsheathed his sword, and flipped over one of the bodies with the blade.

"I mean, what happened here?" said Logan. "Did someone else find them before we did?"

"No, I do not think so," said the ranger. He glanced up at their surroundings. There was not a single sign of civilization on the horizon, not even the thinnest plume of smoke. "The Rohirrim do not come this far, and I am quite certain that these marks are consistent with those made by the crude blades of the orcs. See here, these are not the same orcs who attacked us. They are of a different breed, and they do not bear the White Hand. I think they come from further east. There must have been some disagreement between those of Isengard and those of Mordor. In the struggle, these were slain."

"And cannibalized?" said Logan.

"Orcs need food too," said the ranger, straightening himself. "It is not so surprising."

"And what of Merry and Pippin?" asked Boromir.

"I see no sign of them," said Aragorn. "They may yet live."

"I certainly don't smell their blood," added Logan. "So that's got to be a sign that they're still alive."

"Unless they've been strangled," said Victor so casually that he might as well have been talking about the weather. The glares he received had no effect on him whatsoever; he simply did not care.

"I believe we have found someone with even worse manners than Logan," Gimli murmured to Legolas. The Wolverine got the feeling that no one really liked Victor much. Of course, Victor was fine with it, as always. From his limited number of memories, Victor had never cared much about what anyone else thought of him. The only opinions which mattered were his own and his brother's, to some extent. Or maybe that had changed, because he certainly didn't seem to mind the fact that Logan did not trust him in the least.

Legolas merely nodded in response to Gimli's statement, but it was obvious that he was not dwelling on Victor's less-than-appropriate comment. His eyes were narrowed, as if he was trying very hard to see into the distance, or the future. Suddenly, with a nod to Aragorn, he was off.

"Hey! Wait!" called Logan. Curiosity had gotten the better of him, but it didn't seem polite or friendly to simply leave the others behind.

"I shall catch up with you," said Boromir, who seemed to know what he was thinking. "Go; it might be important."

"You don't mind if I go as well, do you, lad?" said Gimli. Upon receiving a tired grin from the Gondorian —one which did not reach his eyes— he hurried after Logan. Victor soon followed, not being the type who enjoyed being left out.

Aragorn and Legolas were crouched over something on the ground. As Logan drew closer to where they were, he fancied he could see a glint of metal. "What is it?" he asked. Aragorn picked up the tiny little thing off the ground.

"One of the cloak pins which the Lady Galadriel had given to all of us," he said. "It is clear then; at least one hobbit is still alive and well, for this was left deliberately off the track for us to find. I think it was Pippin, for his tracks are lighter than Merry's."

"Smart hobbit," said Logan. He was genuinely impressed. Pippin had seemed so innocent, and yet, he was managing this situation much better than many trained people Logan knew. That hobbit had turned his mischief-making tendencies into innovation.

"I hope he didn't pay dearly for his brave feat," said Gimli. By that time, Boromir had caught up with them, albeit he was out of breath.

"The leaves of Lorien do not fall idly," said Legolas. "Pippin's bravery was not in vain. Come! It pains my heart to think of those merry folk in chains."

* * *

Yellowed grass rippled as the wind blew over the plains. The sun was just beginning to rise; its pale rays penetrated the dissipating morning mist, casting long shadows. They had barely rested the night before, and if Legolas had had his way, they wouldn't have rested at all. However, he had been outvoted by the others. Not all of them had the stamina of the elves, and one of their company was still recovering from a rather serious wound, even if said wounded man always insisted that he felt fine.

The scent trail was still fresh; if anything, it was fresher. They had found more dead orcs the day before. It seemed that those creatures were not averse to massacring one another, just as they had no qualms about killing anything else.

"They had rested here," said Aragorn. There was a giant patch of trampled grass, although there were no signs of fire. "They were in a hurry, for they did not stay long."

"How can you tell?" asked Logan.

"They did not build a fire, nor is the grass trampled enough," explained the ranger. "They must have known that we were gaining on them."

"If they cared that much, then they should have tried to hide their tracks," said Logan. The orcs might as well have left them a trail of breadcrumbs, literally; all along the way, they had encountered dried crusts of stale bread, a forgotten gauntlet, a scrap of cloak, a broken sword. And the dismembered and cannibalized bodies, of course; one could not forget those. He received no reply, for the ranger and the elf were already off again.

The day continued much like this; occasionally they would stop long enough for Aragorn and Legolas to examine the tracks —this was convenient for those who needed time to catch up— and then were running again as if their lives depended on it. Well, that was partially true, for Merry and Pippin's lives did depend on them. That thought alone gave Logan more than enough strength to follow their trail. He did not make friends easily, but when he did, the Wolverine was someone who would do anything within his capacity to help them, especially if their lives were endangered. He was not alone in this, for the rest of them had the same mindset. In a way, he fitted in with this bunch of people with medieval ideologies better than he fitted in with many people back in his own time and world. Capitalism had diluted their honour. Wealth and profit were all that mattered to most people.

Why Victor was helping them, Logan did not know, but presumably, the Sabretooth had his own aims which, at the moment, did not contradict theirs. The Wolverine did not trust his brother, and after everything that had happened between them, he wasn't sure he ever would. While he had lost his memories, they were coming back —although lately, he hadn't really had the time to 'remember'— and he did not forgive easily. So far, the Sabretooth had said very little, apart from making the occasional dig at 'Jimmy', who was in no mood to retaliate with an acerbic response or two. The most he ever got was a growl.

"Look!" That was Legolas. His voice broke through Logan's thoughts. "An eagle! It is not the first time I have seen this bird, for I believe I have seen it some days ago, although I did not mention it then because I did not think it important enough."

"And I still don't think it's important enough," called Logan breathlessly, marvelling at how the elf did not even seem fatigued at all. Legolas might as well have been strolling in Elrond's gardens. He wouldn't sound much different. "It's a bunch of feathers!" He received raised eyebrows from everyone, and if Boromir had had the energy, Logan believed he would have received an explanation about why eagles were not merely a bunch of feathers. Probably it was seen as a portent of some sort; there were many beliefs in Middle Earth which Logan could not comprehend, no matter how hard he tried to get his head around them. As far as he was concerned, they were a superstitious bunch, not that he blamed them. The metaphysical aspects of their world were apparent, and supernatural occurrences were very real. How else could he explain the existence of burning 'bell rocks', birdbaths which showed people visions and rings which possessed and controlled men?

However, the man of Gondor was in no condition to explain anything as he ran. More like stumbled, actually, for his steps were heavy, not that they had expected anything else. He had lost quite a bit of blood, and this was no way for a man to recover, not that they had a choice. No one was going to leave anyone else behind, and indeed, Boromir wouldn't let himself be left behind. Wait...did he still have the flask which Elrohir —or rather, Elrond— had given him? Ah yes. He had forgotten about it until now. There was not much left in it, but there could be a mouthful. The vessel was still strapped to his belt; being so small, he had not even noticed its presence.

At the front of their extended column, Aragorn and Legolas had stopped again. He paid them no heed, for whatever they found, they would soon relate to the others. There were more important matters for him to tend to. Logan stopped Boromir. "Here," he said. "You look like you need a drink." Removing the stopper from the ornate silver vessel, he thrust the flask at him. "This might help."

The Gondorian nodded his thanks, too breathless to speak. Throwing his head back, he downed the last of the elixir from Rivendell—that was what Logan had come to think of it as. That other name was just too hard to remember, as if he didn't have enough to learn already.

It was miraculous, whatever it really was, because as soon as the Gondorian had swallowed it, colour seemed to return to his face almost immediately. "Thank you," he said to Logan. The man stared at the flask in his hand almost reverently, as if he could not believe what sort of effect that mouthful of elixir was having on him.

"I'm glad I could help," said Logan with a shrug. He took back the flask; just because it was empty didn't mean he was going to leave it behind. It was too pretty to throw away. After everything he had gone through in Middle Earth, he might as well have a souvenir or two, just in case he was suddenly taken back to New York sometime in the future. At least he'd have something pretty to put his strong liquor in. He was surprised by how little he thought of 'home' nowadays. In fact, he didn't even really want to go back. He had unfinished business here, and he had come to value these new friends of his highly. His old friends would always have a place in his heart, but they were more or less safe now, and he seemed to have a greater purpose here; these people needed him. At least, that was the feeling he had. He would never assimilate, just as he had never really assimilated back in his own world, but perhaps he had found his own niche in this world full of strange creatures and honourable men and elves and dwarves and hobbits and— honourable people. Besides, if Victor was here, then it wouldn't be proper if the Wolverine wasn't here to make sure that the Sabretooth didn't get up to any mischief.

Their march became smoother, and they seemed to gain speed. Of course, Logan suspected that if it was actually an option, Legolas would leave them all behind in his haste because this speed was more or less a stroll to the elf, but he was too considerate to do that. Besides, they would need every fighter once they actually caught up with the orcs. They didn't exactly have a coherent and intelligent plan which would increase their chances for victory.

The Wolverine was surprised no one had pointed that out yet, although he had a niggling suspicion that it was the white elephant in the room which no one would speak of. Well, they were catching up. The tracks were getting fresher, and Legolas had said that they were lessening the distance. Sooner or later, they would have to think of a plan. While simply sneaking up on them, killing as many as they could and snatching the hobbits was a simple and easy to remember plan, he had a feeling that it wouldn't work very well, at least not for the others.

* * *

All through the night, as Logan lay on the ground and tried to get some sleep, he could hear the thudding of iron shod feet as they pounded on the earth. The orcs were not stopping, and he had a feeling that they were never going to catch up. Each time he thought of the hobbits, he got the anxious feeling that the company should not be sleeping either, but he knew that they needed the rest, and that included him. He finally drifted off into an uneasy sleep full of incoherent dreams. His memories were trying to return, only they were mingled with his thoughts about their current situation, so he ended up with dreams about how the orcs had gone into Xavier's school and taken the children while he was supposed to be watching them, and how a certain Colonel William Stryker wanted to perform perverse experiments on the hobbits. Then a voice cut through all the confusion and jerked him out of his nightmares. He sat up, claws brandished, only to find out that it was just the wake-up call.

"Awake! Awake!" cried Legolas. The elf was going around shaking everyone, getting them up. The sun was just peeking over the horizon, staining the sky with streaks of red. However, he wisely did not shake Logan, having seen what the Wolverine was prone to do when woken suddenly. "A red sun rises. Something strange is afoot, and I feel that we may be surprised sooner or later."

"What do your psychic abilities have to do with the sun anyway?" demanded Logan. "The sun's just a big ball of burning gas." He was grumpy. They were all grumpy; the lack of sleep and their worry for the hobbits made sure of that. The elvish cookies —called 'limp bass' or something like that— were handed around for breakfast. A very inadequate and meagre breakfast, even if it did put an end to his hunger, and gave him a sort of restless energy. Logan needed something more substantial. He could not be satisfied by a single mouthful of light, sweet-tasting pastry, or whatever it was. He wanted to chew on something. It was psychological.

Aragorn insisted on quickly examining Boromir's wound, and although the Gondorian protested initially, he knew better than to argue with a stubborn healer, especially when he himself knew the importance of keeping an eye on injuries to make sure that they did not fester. Many a good warrior had been taken by fever. That was not an end which any man wanted. This resulted in the first piece of good news —well, relatively good news— which they had had in a while. Boromir's wound was healing normally. He still had to have his arm in a sling, but at least he wouldn't be dying of gangrene any time soon.

The chase was resumed, and the column soon took on the formation which had been developed over the past couple of days, even if the distance between the front and the back had been lessened somewhat. They were getting quite desperate by now; each step took them closer to Isengard, which meant that soon the hobbits would be in Saruman's hands. Victor was being decidedly unhelpful —according to Logan— as he insisted on describing the terrors of Isengard in great detail. Upon reflection, it was a kind of twisted psychological technique to speed them up, and it did work, but it did nothing to improve the company's mood.

Apart from the grass, which was more yellow than green, everything else was decidedly grey; at least, that was how it seemed. Logan tried not to think about it; it was too complicated, and it simply wasn't helpful to worry so much when there was already so many things on his mind. It would be more productive if he put his energy into the chase instead. He wasn't quite aware of when it started, because he was tired, but he heard and felt the thunder of a thousand hooves, give or take. Or maybe not; he really couldn't tell. It was coming their way. Well, that wasn't really too surprising as this was horse country. Horselords meant stallions with big herds, right?

"There are horsemen approaching us!" came Aragorn's shout from the front.

"How many?" called Boromir. His colour was improved, and he had enough breath to speak even after running for all this time. Well, it sounded more like wheezing to Logan, but it was an improvement. It was something to be thankful for.

"I cannot tell, for they are too far away," called Aragorn. "I would say something between five and seven leagues."

"Nay, for they are but three leagues from us, and they number about one hundred," said Legolas. "Although, I do see a few horses without riders. Their hair is wheaten, and their spears are long."

"The eyes of the elves are keen indeed," said Aragorn.

"You counted?" said Logan. He really couldn't believe that elf. Here they were, running a marathon, and he had the time to go and count riders. It wasn't as if it was a small number either, like seven or eleven. "Wait, horsemen? As in knights in shining armour with big lances and dorky helmets?"

"When you are used to leading armies into battle, Master Wolverine, you become adept at estimating numbers," said Legolas. "And yes, they are horsemen with armour and long spears. Were you not listening?"

"I was tired, all right?" said Logan. "Besides, I wasn't payin' attention."

"You weren't expecting centaurs, were you, Jimmy?" said Victor with a smirk. "Coz I remember you used to believe all the stories I made up for you, and I think I talked about centaurs once or twice."

"Just shut up," snapped Logan. Really, how could one person be so irritating? And honestly, Victor wasn't really that large at all; at least not large enough to intimidate him. He was just shaggy, and extremely annoying; more so than most things his size. No, that didn't make much sense, but Logan really wasn't in a mood to make sense.

Victor simply smirked some more. Why the hell was he in such a good mood? The Wolverine itched to wipe that expression off his brother's face. Better yet, he could always help to make that grin wider. Perhaps that might be more pleasant. However, it would not help the others, even if it would be therapeutic for him.

"Should we avoid them?" asked Gimli.

"I do not think so," said Boromir. "The Rohirrim are honourable men, and they have not yet succumbed to the power of the Dark One. Perhaps they might have news which might be useful to us."

"And if we're lucky, we might be able to borrow some horses, and maybe a cart for those of you who can't ride," said Victor. A sensible suggestion, actually, but nonetheless, it grated on Logan's nerves for he knew that his brother was referring to him. He really should have killed him before and saved himself all this trouble. What did he owe Victor anyway?

"And what if we can't?" said Logan. "Wouldn't it be a waste of time?"

"There is not much we can do about it," said Aragorn. "I think the best thing that we can do is wait here for the moment, or risk being shot at."

The distant thundering became a roar as the horsemen drew closer. Logan could feel the ground shaking beneath his feet. These weren't just any horses; he'd heard thoroughbred races before, and they did not sound like this. He wasn't any good with breeds, but he could hear that these horses were much heavier than the racing animals back home. Then again, they were carrying armoured men with shields and spears and God knew what. That had to be quite different from carrying tiny little jockeys.

They appeared like some horde from a bygone age —wait, Middle Earth _was_ a relic from a bygone age; at least, that was what it felt like. The horsemen's shields were streaked with soot and dark dried blood. They surged towards the bedraggled company and seemed to pass them without even noticing that they were there. Logan was quite confused, but when he looked at the others, he saw why. Those cloaks were the best camouflage he had ever seen. They looked as if they were part of the landscape. The company would have gone undetected if Aragorn had not suddenly gotten the idea that it would be good to announce their presence. The ranger called out to them, asking them about news from the north.

The horsemen wheeled around immediately without even slowing down. It looked as if they were one unit instead of many. The riders surrounded them, riding in circles around them, and tightening it each time they completed a circuit. Logan could hardly make head or tail of what was going on; all he could see was manes, tails and flying hooves. The horses smelled strong and made a lot of noise; if he hadn't been a top predator, he might even have been intimidated.

Spears were levelled, and Logan found himself facing a ring of sharp glinting points. Instinct took over, and he extended his claws with a growl. This only served to make the riders even more hostile. The spearheads now came dangerously close to his face. In fact, one of the tips was touching his cheek. It wasn't something which he appreciated. Geez, if they didn't look so bloody European, he would have compared them to the Bedouin. They seemed to be just as hostile to strangers as those desert nomads were.

"Peace!" called Aragorn. "We mean no harm." Good luck to him; he would need to use everything he had to convince these horsemen that the two large men with claws were not threats. In fact, if it hadn't been for Boromir holding him back —that man knew him very well indeed— he would have leapt at those insolent riders who had dared to point spears at him. Speaking of which, why wasn't Victor leaping? Ah, he was trying his best to spook the horses. Too bad these were well-trained animals. They might be snorting and laying their ears back against their heads, but they were not budging. Not much, anyway.

A man, taller and with a more noble bearing than the others, rode forwards through the ranks. The helmet obscured much of his face, although Logan could make out a pair of sharp hawk-like eyes which shone with intelligence. This was probably their leader, chief, captain...whatever. "Who are you?" he demanded. His voice was cold and authoritative. Definitely a leader, for he sounded as if he was used to being obeyed. "What is your business here?"

"Lord Éomer," called Boromir. "We meet again, although I am sorry that it is not under better circumstances."

"Lord Boromir!" said the man —obviously called Éomer. "Well met! I must say, I did not recognize you, garbed as you are, and wounded, too."

"I thank you for your concern," said Boromir, dipping his head. The other man returned the gesture. It was a lower bow than Boromir's, but certainly not low enough for a common soldier, or even a ranked officer. Logan was almost alarmed. Was this Éomer guy royalty or something? Why else would a nobleman bow to him? He tried to remember the bowing lessons from Lothlorien. Well, Boromir didn't bow from the waist, so that meant that this was not a king. Then again, did a man only bow from the waist to his own king? He didn't remember. All right, so it would be better to assume that Éomer was not a king, since no one called him 'Sire' or 'Your Majesty' or 'Your Grace' or 'Your Holiness' or anything like that. Still, he had to be pretty important if Boromir bowed to him. Well, he'd just have to see how Aragorn was going to treat him. Aragorn was descended from kings, and there was a chance that he might inherit a throne of some sort. If he bowed to Éomer, then this knight would not just be a knight. Did they even have knights in this place?

Éomer dismounted and handed his reins to one of the men beside him. Upon seeing that their leader trusted this strange bedraggled company, the riders lifted their spears so that they were no longer pointing at the travellers, although many of them were still eyeing Logan with much suspicion. Being an exhibitionist, Logan couldn't help but retract his claws slowly and deliberately, making sure that they could see exactly what was happening. Perhaps it was immature, but it had been some time since he'd had a little bit of innocent fun. He heard a cough. Elvish cough? Was that even possible? He glanced sideways to see Legolas giving him a very pointed look. He shrugged. It wasn't as if he hurt anyone with his little stunt.

"Who are these men who travel with you, Lord Boromir?" asked Éomer. As he finished his sentence, he looked Victor up and down, as if trying to figure out whether he was a man or something else entirely.

Before Boromir could speak, Aragorn stepped forward. "I have been known as Strider, amongst other names," he said.

"That is not a common name among men. Are you elvish folk?" said Éomer. He turned to Boromir for an explanation.

"Indeed, no," said the Gondorian. "Strider is a Man, as are Logan and Victor." He indicated the two mutants. "Only one of us, Legolas of the Woodland realm, is an elf."

"Our company has recently come out of the Golden Wood, having enjoyed the hospitality of the Lady," said Aragorn as an explanation for the way they were dressed.

"So the tales are true, then!" said Éomer. "It is said that no one escapes from her. Are you sorcerers yourselves?"

"I wish," said Logan. "If I were a magician, I'd just blast More Door into a million pieces with a nuke." He heard Aragorn suck in a breath, and immediately knew that he had said the wrong thing. Ah, well. At least no one shot him this time. It wasn't as if they would understand him anyway. Nuclear missiles didn't exist in Middle Earth.

* * *

**A/N: **I hope you enjoyed that. It's another filler chapter. I don't know how I could have written so much about marching, but here you go. If you find mistakes, do tell me. It's three in the morning right now and my mind's a little woozy so I might have missed something.


	27. Of Wolverines and All Things Equine

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything that you recognize. **

**Thecakeisalie: **Thanks for pointing out the typo. It was much appreciated. Thanks to Boromir, Éomer isn't too suspicious of the two guys with claws because the Gondorian trusts them enough.

**Chapter 27: Of Wolverines and All Things Equine**

Well, what else could he have expected? It was Logan, after all. He was now infamous for saying things which he wasn't supposed to say —or for singing completely inappropriate songs, which was related, really. The problem was that this was not only inappropriate, it was also dangerous. How he was going to fix it, he did not know. He might be the chief of the Dúnedain—not that he liked to brag about it— but there were limits to his abilities. Getting Logan out of trouble was not one of his strengths, and Logan had potentially gotten himself into too much trouble this time; how was he going to explain the mention of Mordor without talking about the quest?

The Rohirrim were eyeing the Wolverine with more suspicion than ever. Their weapons were still lowered, although Aragorn could see that some of the riders had adjusted their grips on their spears, should the clawed man tried anything. Not that a spear would do much good against the Wolverine, but the last thing they needed was a confrontation with Éomer and his men. The ranger gave Logan a pointed look. The other man seemed to understand, because he shrugged at the Rohirrim. "I don't like Ron," he said.

Gimli snorted, or coughed; it was hard to tell. Aragorn suppressed the urge to groan. How long had Logan been on this quest now? Surely he ought to have learned how to correctly refer to the Dark Lord. He glanced at Victor to see how the Wolverine's brother was reacting. The other clawed man seemed to be taking things rather well, even if he was smiling in smug amusement. Why was it that Victor could learn, but Logan could not? Or was Logan doing this on purpose?

"I beg your pardon?" said Éomer. "Ron?"

"That's what I call the Dark Lord," said Logan. "What's the point of showin' him respect by callin' him by his proper name when I hate his guts?"

"Despite the fact he does not have any guts at the moment?" said the Rohirrim warrior, raising an eyebrow.

"He doesn't?" said Logan. That was odd. If he didn't have guts, wouldn't he be dead? Or was this Éomer being figurative? No, he looked entirely serious. Oh yes, that's right. How could he forget that little detail about the Dark Lord? It was positively strange, just like most things in Middle Earth. "Right, right. Eyeballs don't have digestive systems; I forgot—I mean, I forgot that Sour Ron was an eyeball, not that eyeballs didn't have digestive systems."

Valar, why did he even let Logan do his own explaining? He ought to have known that it would not work. Digestive systems? Could he stray further from the subject? Well, maybe Logan could, but the ranger was not interested in finding out. Now, how was he to stop this before it went too far, but without offending the quick-tempered Wolverine?

"The thing is, I hate the guy—eyeball— for doin' what he's been doin', y'know, so yeah, I'd kill him if I had the chance," Logan finished. It sounded awful; so awful that Gimli wasn't the only one having a coughing fit. Logan, to his credit, did not react to the disguised sniggering, apart from clenching his teeth. He probably knew how bad it sounded. Of course, once again, Victor was trying his best to make matters worse by giving Logan the smuggest smirk possible.

The look on Éomer's face indicated that he was of the same opinion as the rest of them. It was fortunate that he trusted Boromir's judgement, and did not ask further questions about Logan's outlandish statements.

* * *

After having averted a minor disaster, Logan used all his willpower to refrain from speaking as Aragorn and Boromir explained their situation to Éomer, carefully leaving out anything to do with Frodo and the Ring. Éomer listened, and did not say a single word until after the other two had finished their much abridged tale.

"I think I might have encountered your quarry last night," said the flaxen-haired warrior after Aragorn and Boromir had finished explaining. "They were large orcs —much larger than the common goblin— and they bore the White Hand, is that correct?"

"Indeed, yes," said Boromir. "What happened?"

"We came upon them in the dead of night. They were not aware of what was going on, and we slaughtered them," replied Éomer. He fell silent, fully understanding the implication of what had happened. They were all aware of it.

"Did you see two Halflings?" asked Gimli desperately. His voice was tight and unnaturally high, at least for him. "Surely you cannot have mistaken them for orcs. They appear as children!"

"We did not see any children," said Éomer. "However, as I said, it was dark, and easy to make mistakes. I fear that—"

"Don't you dare say it," said Logan. "They cannot be dead!" It was all he could do to keep himself from snarling. How could Merry and Pippin be dead, after everything? Had they survived the orcs only to die at the hands of men? But what if this was true, and they had died? They would have failed. Logan wasn't sure he could live with that. In fact, he was quite sure that none of them, with the exception of Victor, could. And Aragorn, in particular, would blame himself.

"I am sorry," said Éomer, bowing his head.

"Where did this happen?" said Aragorn. His voice was quiet, almost like a whisper, but it did not matter, for they heard him clearly. They were all silent.

The warrior indicated to a column of dark smoke rising into the pale grey sky like a warning sign to any other orc who was thinking of trespassing onto the plains of Rohan. A gust of wind came their way, bringing the scent of foul burnt flesh and dried blood. Logan couldn't smell any hobbit blood, but the other scents were strong enough to mask traces of anything else. It did not bode well. He looked around at his companions, trying to gauge their reactions. As usual, Legolas was proving to be very difficult to read. Gimli's distress was evident, as he had shown earlier on, and Boromir... oh God, he looked as if someone had sucked out his soul or something. Was it even possible for a man to look so pale? And was he swaying on his feet? Rather than risk having him fall over, Logan reached over and grasped his arm. Their eyes met, and the Wolverine was rather taken aback by the anguish and torment which he could see in the Gondorian's eyes. He was taking this very hard indeed. Did he somehow blame himself for it? All right, so they were all blaming themselves. It was only natural.

Éomer gave a shrill sharp whistle. Six saddled horses trotted forward. They gathered around the warrior as if they were awaiting his command. "This is the most I can do for you," he said, patting one of the whiskery noses. "I cannot assist you in your search, for I must return to Edoras. It is my duty."

"Yes, of course," said Aragorn. He sounded numb. It was unnerving to hear the ranger sound like that. He was usually so calm and so much in control. Everything was going awry. He accepted the reins of a stately bay and gave his thanks to Éomer, who nodded in return. The other man seemed to suspect that he was more than just a wandering traveller called Strider, since Boromir looked to him as the leader —and he was right, of course— but he had enough tact not to question him further about it just then.

"Wait, wait," said Gimli. "Am I supposed to ride?" He voiced Logan's thoughts perfectly. It seemed as if the Wolverine wasn't the only one with a distinct dislike for anything equine.

"You must, or else you will not be able to keep up," said Aragorn, "and we are in a hurry."

"I don't need hooves to keep up," said Logan. He was eyeing his prospective steed with much suspicion. The feeling was mutual, for the animal's ears were flat against its sledge-shaped skull. The expression in its eyes told Logan very clearly that he ought to keep away, or else there would be a confrontation. It wasn't that Logan was _afraid_ of the horse. Indeed, it would be completely ridiculous for a predator like him to be afraid of prey. "You ain't seen me on a truly long march yet. Besides, I don't think it can carry me. I'm heavy."

"Those horses can carry me, Jimmy," interjected Victor. He accepted his steed with a nod of thanks, ignoring the animal's complete reluctance to be near him. "I don't see why they can't carry you."

Logan fought the urge to tackle the Sabretooth right there and then. That mutant really was the most infuriating creature he had ever seen. However, he was not about to admit that Victor could do something which he could not. Besides, how hard could it be to ride? He'd ridden helicopters, tanks, motorbikes, and even a maddened bull, once. It didn't matter that the ride on the bull had consisted of him hanging on by the horns and trying his best to cut the creature's throat —which he had succeeded in doing, by the way. He had still ridden it.

He watched as the others, apart from Gimli, swung onto their horses' backs as if it was the most natural thing for a human being to do. The elf was even more unbelievable, although Logan had come to expect almost anything from Legolas; he had asked Éomer's men to remove the saddle, and had vaulted on as easily as if he had been hopping onto a barstool. That left him and Gimli. Everyone was looking at them expectantly. The dwarf still had his feet planted firmly on the ground. "It is unnatural to try and gallop with hooves when I was born with perfectly good legs," insisted Gimli stubbornly. "There is no reason why I cannot keep up. We dwarves are natural sprinters, and very dangerous over a short distance."

"Gimli, you have already been running for days, and it is no short distance," said Aragorn. He sounded tired and he probably was.

"Come, Gimli, my friend," said Legolas. "You shall ride behind me; I promise that I will not let you fall." Maybe it was the friendly offer, or the amused grin on the elf's face, but Gimli grudgingly accepted the proposal and allowed himself to be helped onto the horse —a spirited grey— behind Legolas. He adjusted himself until he found a comfortable position. That left Logan.

The Wolverine knew it would be impossible for him to share a horse with anyone, and damn it, he was not going to let his brother make him look incompetent. They both had the same mutant powers, and Logan's powers were better than Victor's. If _Victor _could ride a horse, then why couldn't he? Even Gimli was riding now. Damn it, he was the Wolverine, and he was not to be outdone.

One of the riders held his horse, a sturdy chestnut beast with a short back and long feathery fetlocks, as he put his foot in the stirrup experimentally. The animal shifted as it felt the change, but a few comforting words from the man holding its halter convinced it to stay still. So far, so good. He gripped the saddle with both hands and hauled himself up. The horse snorted as he settled in his seat, and he could feel the powerful muscles beneath him. It made him feel uneasy, because it was almost as if he was at the mercy of this large herbivore. He didn't like being at anyone's mercy.

The man holding the horse handed Logan the reins, helped him to adjust them, and then let go. As if it knew that Logan could not ride, and had no idea how to control it, the horse began to prance and toss its head, all the while giving off high-pitched whistles and annoyed snorts alternatively. "Whoa!" cried Logan. That was what the cowboys in the old westerns said when they wanted to calm a horse. Everything he knew about riding came from those, and the races, although during the races, he was usually more interested in the tickets and the numbers. What else did the cowboys do? Ah, yes. They pulled on the reins. He did so, but the horse only reared, and almost tossed him onto the ground.

In all his years, had he never ridden a horse? He certainly couldn't remember riding one. In every single war, he always seemed to be in the infantry. Oh yeah, he had killed a couple of horses, but that was it. Come to think of it, Victor had also been in the infantry, so when had _he_ learned to ride?

Someone murmured something in a strange language, and although it was still nervous, Logan's horse stopped trying to throw him off. It stood there, snorting and tossing its head. "We need a quick lesson on horse-riding," whispered Legolas as he rode up to him. It seemed as if he didn't even need to guide his horse. It just moved wherever he wanted it to.

Logan soon learned that tugging on the reins with both hands was the equivalent of stepping on the brakes. Tugging with the left hand made the horse go left, and vice versa. He also learned that he would need to use his heels to nudge the horse to make it move forwards. The problem was judging the amount of pressure that he needed to use. Apparently, it was not good to hurt the horse, and horsewhips were not supposed to be used on one's smirking brother. If Legolas thought that Logan's first ride was going to be ugly, then he certainly did not show it. The Wolverine had to be impressed by the amount of patience the elf had. He certainly didn't, not with himself nor anyone else, and his seeming inability to ride was making him increasingly frustrated, especially since the Rohirrim were still there. Most of them were watching, and only some had the courtesy to keep a straight face. So what if they could ride as if their horses were glued to their asses? Logan wasn't born on horseback, and he suspected most of these men had learned to ride before they had been able to walk.

Finally, the Wolverine managed to control his horse well enough so that it did not attempt to toss him off. It was just as well that horses were prone to following leaders, or else the animal was just going to run off. However, since all the other horses were standing still, the chestnut grudgingly followed their lead.

Éomer and his men, after wishing the travellers good luck in their search for their friends, took their leave, for duty called. They swept away. The thunder of their horses' hooves faded into the distance until it was only faint rumble in the background.

* * *

The stench of burnt orc was overwhelming. Usually, the smell of charred flesh had little impact on Logan, as he was used to it. His endeavours with the barbecue had become infamous back at home. Even burned human flesh was a normal part of his not-so-normal life. However, this was something he had never smelled before, and never wished to smell again.

They found themselves next to a dark forest of twisted looming trees. Some of the plants bore marks from axes. In fact, there was still a crude iron axe embedded in one of the trunks. The orcs had obviously been in the middle of chopping wood when they had been attacked.

The pile of burned bodies was still smoking. The orcs' crude iron weapons littered the ground. Of the hobbits, there was no sign. Logan swallowed. What if they were buried under that pile of burnt orcs? He pulled his horse to a stop. The animal was becoming more and more nervous. It probably had something to do with the smell, as well as the presence of a predator on its back. Logan swung out of the saddle, and almost got his foot stuck in the stirrup. A string of curses escaped from him as he tried to free himself; all the while, the horse was prancing sideways, making it even more difficult. "Stay still, damn you!" he said through clenched teeth. The horse merely tossed its head and continued to sidestep. The situation would have become rather humiliating if Aragorn had not interfered. The ranger caught the horse's halter, holding it still so that Logan could finally get his foot out of the stirrup.

Boromir was already rummaging through the pile of carcasses, and Gimli was there helping him, using his axe to push aside the charred smoking limbs and crushed skulls. The Gondorian's face became increasingly paler as he searched through the corpses. He hadn't found anything yet, but Logan could see that he was becoming desperate. Boromir blamed himself for not having been able to protect Merry and Pippin adequately.

The Wolverine joined in the search. From the periphery of his vision, he could see Aragorn examining the ground, no doubt putting together a picture of what had happened the night before. Although he had known the ranger for some time now, Logan never ceased to be amazed by the man's skill. Normal people back in his world just couldn't read the ground like a book anymore. They had to have all their high-tech equipment to analyze everything. It was probably more accurate, but it was so much less efficient, and when time really mattered, it was downright inconvenient.

Legolas was eyeing the forest as if he sensed something and was trying to find it. Logan had learned not to question the sixth sense of elves. It was something that was part of being an elf, and there was no way of explaining it, at least not scientifically. Of course, many things in Middle Earth did not adhere to the laws of science. They had a different form of logic here. On the other hand, physical evidence was still the most reliable evidence. No matter what world they were in, such evidence did not lie. Although, this time, Logan wished that it did.

Gimli held up a burned woven belt with a pattern of leaves. That definitely did not belong to an orc. "God, no," whispered Logan. He was the only one who said anything.

* * *

Boromir sank to his knees in silence. He had failed them; all of them. Everything faded away, except for that belt in Gimli's hand. He was vaguely aware of a voice murmuring in the background, so full of sorrow and defeat. The words hardly made any sense, even though he was more than competent when it came to speaking Sindarin. But what did that matter now? He had failed the Fellowship.

The Gondorian felt someone place a hand on his shoulder, and he was grateful for the gesture, although he wasn't sure if he deserved it. In his mind, he could see himself stretching out his hand for the Ring. That burden weighed down heavily on him, and combined with this...it was too much. He had never failed so badly before in his life. Even with the darkness approaching, he had been certain of his own honour. That was the one thing he had sworn never to give up, and yet, he had lost it, despite what the others might say. He would have remained his chance for longer if Aragorn suddenly called out to them. "Come and see this!" said the ranger. He was bending over the ground, brushing his hand gently over the singed and trampled grass. There were two slight depressions there, each just the right size for a hobbit. "The hobbits lay here."

"Were they alive?" Trust Logan to ask the obvious question.

"Indeed, since I see signs of struggle," said Aragorn. "They managed to free themselves from their bonds." He followed the faint tracks, riddled with the heavier prints of hooves and iron shod feet until he found some lengths of coarse discarded rope, hidden in the grass. The edges were frayed; someone had been worrying at them for a long time.

They trailed the ranger as he read the tracks, detailing bit by bit how the night progressed. It didn't last very long, for Aragorn was very adept at tracking, and the trail which he uncovered led straight under the eaves of the dark forest.

"Um...nice shelter," said Logan. "I can see why they went in there."

"I, on the other hand, do not," said Gimli. The dwarf was eyeing the forest with much dread in his face, or as much of his face as could be seen. He gripped his axe tightly. "Well, it matters not what I think. We want to find those hobbits, do we not?"

"We do indeed," said Aragorn. "Tie the horses here. It would be more convenient if we searched the forest on foot."

* * *

Logan had never much liked trees. They provided hiding places for his enemies so that they could easily ambush him, or else a certain clawed mutant who had turned out to be his brother could rip them out of the ground and throw them at him. Then there was that episode in Rivendell concerning himself, a tree, and Elrond's little meeting. How could anyone forget that?

"This forest is old," commented Legolas. "In fact, it is so old that I almost feel young again, and that is something I have not felt ever since I started travelling with you youngsters." Logan rolled his eyes. Really, they all knew he was the oldest and by merit of age, the most senior of them. Did he have to rub it in their faces? The elf was behaving like a tourist who was seeing Rome for the first time. Well, that was how they looked in the travel shows, gawping and gaping, and generally trying to catch flies with their mouths. Legolas could not stop turning in every direction, admiring the twisted lichen covered branches as if he had never seen anything so glorious before. Wasn't he supposed to be a prince? Logan couldn't figure out what was so amazing about a few trees that even a prince would be in awe of them. It wasn't as if they were anything compared to Italian art. The Wolverine was definitely not a keen admirer of art, but he did like that sculpture called the 'Ecstasy of Saint Teresa' or something rather. Supposedly, she was showing divine ecstasy, but Logan was of the opinion that her ecstasy was of an entirely different nature...no, not going there. However, there was no reason for Legolas to gawp at these trees as if he was looking at all those lovely naked women painted on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Wait, did they have naked women on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel?

There was something about these trees which made the Wolverine like them even less than he liked other trees. Most plants felt just like ornaments, or obstacles. These, however...Logan swore he could hear them groaning. He glanced around, just to make sure that he wasn't the only one. Then he couldn't help but grin. Victor was eyeing the forest with much distrust as well. It was amusing to see the Sabretooth look so uncomfortable; for one, it was a rare occurrence.

However, making fun of Victor was not on the agenda at the moment. They needed to locate the missing hobbits before they became food for something. Logan wouldn't put it down these trees to turn men and other creatures into mulch. They seemed so close together, as if they were trying to surround the weary travellers, or something like that. "Is it just me, or do these trees seem angry?" he asked.

"It is not just you," said Legolas. He glanced back at where Gimli was standing, axe raised, as if ready to cut off any offending branch. "Gimli, friend, I know you have no fondness for forests, and I regret to tell you that the forest is reciprocating your feelings."

The dwarf was so startled by the elf suddenly addressing him that he almost jumped. "What?" he said. "Oh no, I am not nervous. They are only trees."

"They're trees that hate you," said Logan. "And I think they hate me, and Victor too."

"I know for certain that they don't like me," said the Sabretooth. "I know this forest, although obviously not this part of it. I'd chopped down quite a few of them. I worked for Saruman, remember?"

At the mention of the name 'Saruman', the trees let out the largest collective groan yet. Were some of the branches swaying, even though there was no wind? Perhaps they ought to refrain from mentioning that other wizard while they were in this forest. Logan realized that they were so preoccupied with possible man-eating trees that they had forgotten about their original purpose. Where were the hobbits? He couldn't hear them, and he couldn't smell them, so they couldn't be anywhere close by. The Wolverine was too busy looking around for clues to pay attention to what was directly in front of him, and he almost tripped as he accidently stepped into a deep depression on the ground. He looked down as he righted himself, and then almost leapt backwards, for he had stumbled across what looked like the largest and strangest footprints. 'Oh God,' he thought. Middle Earth didn't have any dinosaurs, did it?

"Gentlemen...and Victor! Come and have a look at this! What the hell d'you think it is?"

"Tracks," said Victor, giving the depression a brief glance. "What else do you think? You can't really have that many puddles of the same size and shape, going in more or less a straight line through the forest."

"If you ain't got anythin' helpful to say, then you might as well save your energy and keep your damn mouth shut," snapped Logan. He couldn't believe he hadn't tried to gut his brother yet. Maybe all this time with Boromir, Aragorn and the rest of them had given him more patience. Was that a good thing or a bad thing? He couldn't tell.

"I have never seen tracks like this before," said Aragorn, bending down to examine them. "See the distance between each footprint; whatever made these were very big."

"Like...dinosaur big?" said Logan.

* * *

**A/N: **I apologize for the short chapter. I have two essays due in a week, and I need to get started on the writing part, so those have been taking up my time. Am feeling so stupid right now for not starting earlier. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the chapter.


	28. Of Wizards and Wizards

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything that you recognize. **

**R-Cleberg: **I can see Logan and Éomer becoming friends, after a few initial confrontations. It'll be quite interesting to see how the Wolverine gets on with the rest of Middle Earth as well. Thanks for the review.

**Chapter 28: Of Wizards and Wizards**

The smell of damp leaf mould, mingled with fresh greenery, was quite cloying, at least to the Wolverine's keen senses. How he was supposed to track anything in here, he couldn't tell. Still, there was no harm in trying to sniff out a scent trail. The hobbits must have left something, right? Unfortunately, they found nothing, apart from those strange footprints. Just how many toes did that thing have anyway?

It was becoming more and more difficult to see. It had not been bright in the forest in the first place, and with night approaching, they were soon going to become lost in the dark if they did not head back soon. However, how could they leave when they hadn't found any signs of their friends yet?

"Are we gonna follow those tracks?" asked the Wolverine. Well, they had to do something else other than mope around here, trying to figure out what happened, right? Besides, he had the feeling that if they followed those footprints, they would be able to find Merry and Pippin, and then those two could _tell_ them what had transpired. It was so simple and straightforward.

"Not tonight," said Aragorn. "It grows late, and I think we should make camp here, or else we will find ourselves lost beneath the eaves of this forest. I do not know how you feel about it, but I for one feel that we will be more able to continue our search should we rest adequately tonight."

"And what about Merry and Pippin?" said Logan. "For all we know, they could've become dino food!"

"If you explain what a 'die-no' is, Logan, then maybe we can tell you just how likely that is," said Legolas. Was the elf smirking at him? How could he smirk at a time like this? Logan was being completely serious about it.

"_Dinosaurs_ are giant lizards with sharp teeth, and they eat people," said Logan impatiently. "Well, not really people precisely, since they went extinct before there were people, but hypothetically, if we saw one now, it wouldn't hesitate to eat us, if it's a carnivore.

"If they are extinct, then we should not have to worry about them eating Merry or Pippin," said the elf. "Why are you so concerned?"

"Because while they might be extinct in my world, how do I know they're extinct here?"

"I have lived in Middle Earth for many centuries," said Legolas, "and while I have encountered giant spiders, wolves, and other unnatural creatures of the dark, I have yet to see such a lizard." He turned to the others, or more specifically, the ranger. "You have travelled the length and breadth of Middle Earth, Aragorn. Have you encountered such a creature?"

"Indeed, I have not," said Aragorn. "Nor have I heard anyone speak of one, not even Gandalf or my father. Therefore, I must conclude that they do not exist."

"But what about the giant footprints?" demanded Logan. He was not about to give up so easily. "If a dinosaur didn't make them, then it could be a 'bell-rock', or a troll, or...something!"

"If it is indeed a Balrog, which I think it is not, then we would see it," said Legolas. "Charring is a characteristic sign that a Balrog has been somewhere."

"Besides, these are not troll tracks," said Aragorn. "Logan, trust me. I know what I am doing. We all need a rest, and I think a fire will do us some good. We cannot rescue Merry and Pippin if we are half-dead." It sounded so sensible that Logan couldn't think of any rebuttal to that; what made it more difficult was the fact that it was all true. Boromir definitely needed a rest. Aragorn looked absolutely haggard. Gimli was getting increasingly grumpy. Was Legolas sounding a little strained? He didn't really care about what Victor felt, and as for himself...well, sleep sounded wonderful. He couldn't deny that.

"I shall go and gather wood for a fire," said Gimli. "I think we shall have need of a little light and warmth in these dark times, and in such a dark place too." He hadn't even finished his sentence when that strange groaning started, and it was so loud that it sounded like a herd of wailing...elephants. "I mean, charming," said the dwarf quickly. "Dark can be quite charming. I don't mind dark places, or forests..."

"Geez, I can't believe you have to lower yourself to placate a bunch of trees," said Logan. He really didn't like the feel of this place, and he couldn't wait until they could get out. He watched as Gimli gathered dead wood from the forest floor, taking care not to venture too close to the trees —a rather impossible feat inside a forest, but one did have to give the dwarf credit for trying.

* * *

Victor had never been to this part of Fangorn before. He was not fond of the forest at the very best. Right now, however, it was making him feel uneasy, and that was saying a lot. Hardly anything intimidated him. In fact, back in his own world, nothing intimidated him. He had scorned all and feared none. Then he had been thrown —literally— into this world where trees groaned and wizards bred armies of dark creatures and where there were things more sinister and dangerous than he was. Well, he understood it better than he had before, but much of this world was still a mystery to him. He had heard wild tales concerning Fangorn; snippets of whispered conversations between Dunlendings, orcish mutterings, and veiled hints from Saruman. The wizard had tried his best to keep the Sabretooth in the dark about his new environment, but as always, Victor had found a way, and a new master.

The Sabretooth stared into the gloom surrounding them, taking note of every rustle and every crack. He took no part in the others conversations, preferring just to listen to them to find out more. They still did not trust him, which was wise of them, but most inconvenient for him. He had heard enough of those blasted Halflings. What of the other two? What were their names again? Sam...and someone. None of them mentioned the other's name. Half the time, the elf and the ranger were speaking in some infernal language which Victor could not identify. And to make things even more difficult, Logan didn't demand any explanations, which was unusual. Wait, he was dozing.

"The trees are moving," said the elf all of a sudden. Beside Victor, Logan jerked awake and the claws immediately came out.

"You do not want to be doing that," said the ranger, indicating the Wolverine's glinting claws. "This place is no friend of those who seek to harm its inhabitants."

"If there's a tree comin' for me, then I'd rather be ready," said Logan.

"The trees are merely glad for the warmth of our fire," said the elf, as if that was the most normal thing in the world. Victor had to side with little Jimmy on this one. These trees were not friendly, and he would rather those adamantium claws were out.

"So you're tryin' to tell me that these trees wanna be burned?"

An angry groan rose. The branches of the trees shook and the ground vibrated with their anger. Apparently, they did not like the Wolverine's idea. Logan seemed to realize what he had done and, in a decidedly un-Wolverine-like fashion, retracted the claws. The moaning and groaning of the trees took a while to die down, but eventually, they became quiet again.

"If you do not provoke them, they will not harm you," said the elven prince. He seemed to regard that as nothing more than a slightly inconvenient interruption to their conversation. In fact, he seemed a little delighted at the trees' show of force.

"I provoke everyone," said Logan. "You know that. And now, it seems I provoke trees as well. What next?"

"Rocks?" suggested Boromir.

"I wouldn't rule that out entirely," muttered the Wolverine.

* * *

Apart from the incident with the angry trees, Logan had to say that the night was progressing smoothly; well, as smoothly as it could be in forest full of moving murderous trees. If only he could actually relax enough to sleep. Actually, no one else was sleeping very well. Some of them tried to pretend to sleep, but eventually, they gave up. "I'm gonna go and scout the area," Logan said as he got up and brushed the leaves from his jeans. Doing anything was better than sitting there and listening to all the strange voices, all the while wondering how Merry and Pippin were faring out there all by themselves, or in the company of some strange, yet unknown creature.

"Do not venture too far," said Aragorn. "We do not know what is out there."

"I'm prepared for all eventualities," said Logan. "I've got these." He waved his hand at the others. He liked to remind them of what he was, although it was highly unlikely that they would have forgotten.

"Not all things in Middle Earth can be dealt with using claws alone," said Boromir. "You should be careful."

"I'm always careful," said Logan. "If I see anythin', I'll report right back to ya...uh...cap'n."

"Which one?" asked Aragorn. "All of us have been captains at one point or another."

"Why don't you fight it out and then tell me who's captain of this little unit when I get back?" suggested Logan. "Might as well do somethin' with your time instead o' just sittin' here an' broodin' like a couple of old women."

"Of course," replied the ranger without even a moment's hesitation. "I will just sit here and brood like the old man I am."

"Your eighty-seven years ain't anythin' compared to my century and a half. Or something like that," said Logan.

"However, to someone normal, that is a lifetime," said Boromir.

"Neither of you have the right to call yourselves old," said Legolas, "for you are naught but children compared to me."

"Yeah, yeah, rub it in, gramps," said Logan. "I won't be gone for long."

* * *

He was relying on his hearing and his sense of smell to guide him. There was so little light that all he could see were vague dark shapes. Their campfire was still in sight, so that was good, and the trees were being helpful for once. They made their angry sounds whenever Logan got too near to one of them. So far, so good; there was nothing out here, except for those hostile trees, and he'd already known about them. The leaves crackled beneath his boots, and more often than not, he found himself tripping over tree roots. The Wolverine had a great suspicion that these trees were out to get him; they were sticking their roots in his way on purpose. Trees in New York didn't do that, but he wouldn't put it past the trees in Middle Earth, especially not after his previous experiences with them.

A breeze blew towards him, and he caught a whiff of...something. Technically, it wasn't unpleasant —after everything he had ever smelled in his life, a little body odour didn't affect him at all— but it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on their ends. If he had been a canine, his hackles would have been raised. Indeed, he had to resist the urge to let out a warning growl. He narrowed his eyes, and then sniffed again. It didn't smell like an animal—too clean. So it had to be humanoid. He dared not say 'human' with much certainty, considering the type of creatures which roamed Middle Earth. It wasn't an orc either, so that had to be a good thing. However, the scent was unnatural, as if there was something else other than biological matter. Definitely not cologne. He made out a shape which was more or less similar to that of a man's, or rather, the silhouette of a Ku Klux Klan member for, whoever it was, they wore some form of pointed headgear.

It was then that Logan decided to pretend that he had seen nothing and go back to his friends. That way, whoever was out there would not think that they had raised Logan's suspicions. Considering the fact that the Wolverine was not the best actor, and his instincts were telling him to chase after that stranger, it was not easy to achieve, but he thought he did a pretty good job. There were no snarls, no growls; he didn't even ball his fists.

"Did you see anything?" asked Gimli.

"More like smelled," said Logan. "But yeah, there's something out there. I think it's sentient."

"You're not bein' helpful, y'know," said Victor. "We _know_ there's somethin' out there. The question is _what's _out there."

"Why don't you tell me yourself?" retorted Logan. "You have a nose and, I hope, some sort of organ which can process information."

"You sure you want to be challenging my intelligence when you're the one who can't give the answer to a simple question?" said Victor.

"I do not think Victor has any need to smell him out," said Aragorn. "See, he is here." Standing some distance away, at the very edge of the light cast by their small campfire, was a hunched figure draped in a shapeless grey cloak. The figure leaned against a gnarled staff, and on his head was a pointed hat. By the dim light, Logan could see a long grey beard. Or was it white? It was hard to tell.

"That seemingly-sentient being of Logan's looks like an old man to me," whispered Legolas.

"Come off it, Mister Super-Sight," muttered the Wolverine. "Smells don't have 'old man' written all over them. Besides, he didn't smell like any man I've ever smelled before."

"What can we do for you, father?" called Aragorn. When the old man did not respond, he continued. "Come and ward off the cold by our fire, if you will." The stranger said nothing. Instead, he turned around and with speed which belied his appearance, he disappeared into the darkness once more and was lost to them, leaving all of them confused, save for one.

"I wouldn't blame Logan for his oversight," said Victor. His voice was so soft that it was barely audible. Only his brother and Legolas could hear him. However, no one could mistake his tension. He had taken a defensive stance. The Sabretooth was preparing for a fight. "This isn't just any old man."

"What is he?" asked Logan.

"Wizard," growled Victor.

"What wizard?" asked Logan. "Are we talking about Merlin, or that Harry Potter boy, or what?"

"Middle Earth ain't got that many wizards," said Victor, "and only one of them lives in this area."

Silence fell over the whole company. Most of them were dismayed; one of them was confused. "So...which wizard is this?" asked Logan.

"Saruman, I believe," said Victor.

* * *

That unexpected run-in with one of the most notorious characters in Middle Earth, barring the Dark Lord himself, meant that none of them were able to sleep any more that night. When a pale colourless morning dawned, Logan felt more irritable than ever. Merry and Pippin were still nowhere to be found, and he was cold, damp, and hungry. The 'limp bass' bread didn't do much to fill the emptiness which he was feeling inside him. He wanted something more substantial, like a nice juicy steak with black pepper sauce and a side of buttered roast potatoes. Even jerky would have been better than just that elvish bread.

"What's the next step?" said the Wolverine, licking the last of the crumbs from his fingers. He might not like the stuff, but it was all he was going to get. If he could have gotten a bit more, then maybe he wouldn't have minded so much, but apparently, he was only supposed to have one measly little bite.

"We need our horses if we are to follow those tracks," said Aragorn. "Considering the distance between each print, I think whatever made them would be many miles from here by now, and we do not know if it does know where Merry and Pippin are. If it does not, or if it is disinclined to be helpful, then it would be useful to have some form of transport. I might be known as Strider in some places, but that does not mean I enjoy marching for days on end without rest."

"So it's back to the nasty nag again," muttered Logan to himself. He hated that horse; the feeling was mutual. His horse didn't like him either. If the creature hadn't been inclined to follow all the other horses, the Wolverine had no doubt that it would have run off in the other direction and then thrown him against a rock or something. It certainly had that scheming look in its eyes, no matter what the others might say.

"You just need to become friends with your horse," said Boromir. "A warrior's steed is his best companion on the battlefield. Believe me, many a soldier lived because his steed reacted appropriately to attack."

"That's not exactly somethin' I have to think about, is it?" said Logan. "It's not like I need a giant herbivore to watch my back."

"Indeed, you probably do not," conceded Boromir, "but you cannot deny that your horse travels at a much quicker pace, and it does not get half as grumpy as you do when there is a lack of meat and ale."

"It's grumpy enough to me," said Logan. A shout in front of them interrupted their fascinating conversation concerning how to keep horses happy —honestly, Logan did not see why any mode of transport should be worth so much trouble.

"The horses!" That was Legolas. "They are gone!" What? Had some deity up there been listening in on Logan's thoughts and decided to solve his dilemma? That would be a first. Usually, God —or the gods...whatever— left him alone to deal with his problems, if there were such things as supernatural entities living up there somewhere, and they probably thought it was fun to gloat at pathetic human beings as they struggled to survive. Why else would they have let the world go on the path of self-destruction?

They arrived at the edge of the clearing. The horses, the ropes and the pegs were gone. "How is this possible?" said Aragorn as he looked down at what was left; five holes in the ground where the pegs had been. "They dragged out their pegs themselves. What could have made them do such a thing?"

"Maybe they hated the forest as much as some of us did," said Logan.

"If that is the case, then my respect for those creatures have grown," said Gimli. "They are more sensible than I had thought."

"But we should have known what they were doing," said Legolas. "One of us would have heard them, surely. I remember hearing them earlier on, and they were quite content, considering the place we chose for them. There was more than enough grass. Did you not hear them, Logan?"

"Um...no?" said the Wolverine. "I guess I wasn't paying attention." That was true. Horses had been the least of his worries last night. Those trees were enough to distract anyone, with all their moaning and groaning. And then there was that old man... "Do you think it has something to do with that wizard we saw last night?"

"I do not know," said Aragorn, "and it worries me."

"Well, come on," said Logan. "It should be easy. Just look for some prints on the ground or something. Every movement leaves a trace, at least when science applies. Of course, if that guy was a wizard, then he's probably not all that scientific. Then again, they thought science was magic back in the old days... I'm rambling, aren't I?"

"I understood approximately half of what you said," said Aragorn. "It is a vast improvement on my part. However, even if he did leave a footprint, it would be very difficult to find it on this springy grass. At any rate, our main concern is not the fate of the horses, but rather the fate of our friends."

"And we're back to relying on the feet we were born with," said Gimli. "I have to say, that these are the best feet I will ever encounter. They always listen to me, and unless I am very careless, they'll probably not run away from me, unlike a horse."

* * *

In the light of day, Fangorn Forest seemed a little less intimidating. There were different shades of green instead of just one overwhelming mass of dark leaves separating them from the pale grey sky. However, that did not mean it smelled any different, and the cloying scent of rotting plant material was becoming more and more disagreeable by the moment. It was so humid in there that Logan half-imagined he was drowning from the sheer amount of water vapour in the air. Yes, he was exaggerating, but that helped him to take his mind off other more worrying things, such as the fate of Merry and Pippin. Were they still alive? Were they hurt? Would they ever find them? At least if he was busy complaining about the unpleasantness of the forest, he would not have to have those questions playing over and over again inside him mind like a broken recording.

He was lagging behind with Boromir again, as usual. When it came to reading tracks and looking for clues, they preferred to leave Aragorn and Legolas to it. Logan relied on his sense of smell, which was being impeded by the rotting plant material in the forest, and Boromir was a soldier. His place was on the battlefield and walls of fortresses. As for Victor, he travelled slightly apart from the rest of the group, brooding and silent like a prowling predator waiting for the right time to strike.

A few stray rays of cold sunlight filtered through the thick canopy, illuminating the clouds of steam issuing from their mouths with each breath. The tracks of that giant creature were still easy to find, and they led them to a small burbling brook, only about three feet wide and very clear. A few birds were singing, and Logan fancied he could hear a squirrel somewhere. Then his ears twitched involuntarily, for he had picked up another sound; something which sounded very much like bipedal footsteps, and it wasn't made by anyone he could see.

Apparently, Legolas had also noticed that they were not alone, for he suddenly stopped and scanned their surroundings with narrowed eyes. "There," he said. "Do you see him?"

"See what?" said Gimli. The dwarf craned his neck and peered in the direction Legolas was pointing at. "I do not see anything."

"The old man," replied Legolas. "See him there? He is cloaked in grey, and his hat is pointed, just like Gandalf's. He resembles Gandalf, but I cannot be certain that he is our old friend."

"Gandalf fell down the bridge," said Logan. "He can't just come back like nothin's happened."

"It's Saruman!" hissed Gimli. "Legolas, shoot him! What are you waiting for?"

"I cannot shoot an unarmed old man just because he resembles the White Wizard," said Legolas. "Look, he is coming towards us first. Perhaps we should stay our judgement until we can make more observations."

"Isn't it better to be safe than sorry?" said Logan. Legolas shook his head.

"I will not risk shooting an innocent man," said the elf.

"Oh geez. If we get fried by a wizard, it's your fault." Logan couldn't help but feel uncomfortable, even if he knew that Legolas was right to ask questions first before shooting. He couldn't help it; this need to attack the enemy was instinctive. The old man was coming towards them now at an unnaturally fast pace for someone of his age. He was as nimble as any warrior, and he did not seem to be tired at all.

"Hello there!" he called to the company of hunters. "I wish to speak with you on important matters! Will you come over here, or shall I go over there?" When they made no answer, the old man simply continued. "Well, since you do not seem to feel inclined to come here, then I shall have to go over to where you are, for I do not fancy shouting to you forever." With that, he swiftly made his way over, clambering over rocks as if he had the agility and strength of a man in his prime. Which he probably did, but still, it looked unnatural for old men in grey cloaks with great white beards to be doing this. It was a little like watching the Pope scale the leaning tower of Pisa using only a rope and a climbing harness, not that Logan had ever seen such a spectacle.

"It's Saruman!" shouted Gimli. "Quickly, Legolas! Shoot him now! Shoot him _now_!"

"Stay your hand!" called the wizard. "And put down that bow, Master Elf. I said I wanted to speak to you, and that is no way to greet someone who is about to relay great news to you. I thought your father would have taught you better. And Logan, you can put those claws away now. Your first attack on me failed, and I can be quite certain that your second will follow the same path."

"Who the hell are you?" demanded the Wolverine. He was not about to retract his claws just because some wizard said so. Heck, maybe it was because this was a wizard that he was keeping his claws out, just in cases. He didn't trust this guy, whoever he really was. Unfortunately, just as the old man was about the answer the question, Gimli seemed to think that he had had enough. The dwarf launched his throwing axes at the old man, who, with a flash of light, intercepted their path and sent them flying in completely different directions, all without touching anything.

"For the love of the Valar, will you let an old man speak before you attempt to kill him?" said the wizard. "It is awfully rude to kill the messenger before you even hear the message." Logan's claws retracted voluntarily. He wasn't aware of it, nor did he truly care, for he was gaping at the old man. It couldn't be. It really couldn't be. It was impossible, against the laws of science, and yet... The old man threw off his shapeless grey cloak to reveal the brilliant white robes beneath it. They were so bright that it almost hurt to look at them. The colour of his beard and his clothes were different, but apart from that, there could be no mistake.

"Mithrandir!" cried Legolas. His alarm turned into utter joy. A wide grin appeared on his face as he stepped forward, dropping his bow and the arrow he had been about to put to the string. "Gandalf!"

"And it is good to see you too, Legolas," said the wizard.

"But...but..." said Logan. "You died. I mean, this is impossible! I'm hallucinating... You're not Jesus, are you?"

"Indeed, I am not," said Gandalf. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

* * *

**A/N: **The chapter is still a little shorter than usual. Next week's will be back to normal length; I promise. I'm just still preoccupied with assignments. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it. If you find any mistakes, please tell me. When it's five in the morning, it's a little hard to find all of them.


	29. Home of the Horselords

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Anon: **Don't get me wrong, I love Logan's character, and I think he's got a really vivid and strong personality. However, he also comes across as quite sarcastic and reckless in the movies, and not the most social person, at least to me, so I guess that's how I end up writing him. Thank you for the review.

**Chapter 29: Home of the Horselords**

It was one of those rare occasions when the Wolverine completely lost the ability to find words to express himself, whether they were right or wrong. He could only gape at the wizard before him, not comprehending how this had come about. People did not come back from the dead, unless you were one of those who believed in God, which he wasn't. Apparently, things didn't work the same way in Middle Earth, and science definitely had no place here. He had seen Gandalf with the thong of a fiery whip wrapped around his ankle. And yet, the wizard was here in this goddamned forest, talking to them. Just as well he wasn't the only one who was shocked out of all coherence. Boromir was also staring, although he was well-mannered enough not to let his mouth hang open. Gimli was stuttering, trying to ask a question, and failing. Even Aragorn looked as if he could not believe what he was seeing. And Victor...well, he looked as if he had seen a ghost from the past, and who could blame him? Essentially, if Logan guessed correctly, Gandalf looked like Magneto dressing up as Saruman right now. Not exactly a pleasant image for someone who'd served both those men...uh...people. Things.

"You need not worry about Merry and Pippin," Gandalf was saying, "for they are safe now. I left them in the hands of a trusted friend of mine."

"Are they well?" asked Aragorn.

"Undoubtedly," replied the wizard. "Pippin was complaining of hunger the last time I saw him. No doubt Treebeard would have fed him something by now." He shook his head. "Hobbits are such resilient creatures, although they might not look it. Most would not have survived so well as captives of the orcs."

"They risked much to aid us in our search," said Aragorn. He pulled out the brooch which one of the hobbits had dropped some distance from the track of the orcs. The bright green and silver of the ornament glinted like a star in his grimy hand. "This sign from them gave us the hope to continue, or else I doubt we would have come this far."

"Aw, come on," said Logan, who had finally recovered his voice. "Don't be that harsh on us. I don't think we would have given up _that_ easily."

"I am sure that you would not have," Gandalf said, placating the dissatisfied Wolverine. "Come, come. Sit down and tell me of all that has transpired. Galadriel told me a little when Gwaihir brought me to Lothlorien, but I was in a hurry to find you, and could not tarry for long." He led them over to where there were a few fallen logs and a patch of sky. It could hardly be called a clearing, but the trees were a little sparser here, and Logan was glad, for he felt as if he could breathe a little easier. Still, he opted to sit on one of the rocks sticking out of the ground instead of on the trunk of a dead tree, just in case these murderous organisms took offence to him planting his arse on one of their old friends'...erm...remains.

"Who's 'Gray Hair'?" asked the Wolverine.

"Gwaihir, Master Logan, not 'Gray Hair'," said Gandalf. "I see you are still mishearing things. Gwaihir has no hair, for he is an eagle."

"A bird took you to Lothlorien after you fell down a hole in a cave?"

"Chasm, Logan," said Gimli. "Chasm. Khazad-dum is hardly just a hole, and Moria is no mere cave. But, pray tell, how did you escape from Durin's Bane, Gandalf?"

"Escape?" said the wizard. His eyebrows drew together as he frowned. "I did no such thing. Do you think so little of me that you believe I would run? No, do not concern yourself, Gimli. I was merely teasing you. But no, I did not escape. I fought the Balrog of Morgoth, from the lowest plains to the highest peaks. It was a difficult fight, and many times, I had feared that I would perish before I could claim victory. However, you will be pleased to know that I did finally vanquish my foe. There, too weak to move, my spirit strayed. Then it returned, and I found myself completely naked and lying in the snow. Gwaihir found me and brought me to the Golden Wood, where the Lady herself clothed me in these robes of the White."

"It looks nicer on you than the grey did," said Logan. "It's a little less frumpy."

"Yes, they are pleasant on the eye, aren't they?" said the wizard. "However, that is not the most important part, Logan, for these new robes signify my new status."

"As what?"

"As the one who has replaced Saruman as the White Wizard," said Gandalf. "My goodness, has no one taken it upon himself to teach you something during my absence?"

"That's not true," said Aragorn. "We taught him how to bow."

"And we taught him some courting rituals," said Boromir. "Of course, not very many of us can be called experienced when it comes to that aspect of life, so I do not know how successful we were."

"Ah yes," said Gandalf. "I did hear about that. Never in my dreams had I thought that you would claim the heart of an elf-maid, Master Wolverine."

Logan had not thought it possible, but he felt heat spreading from his face to his ears. It was most unnerving to be discussing personal matters with a wizard of all people, especially one who looked like Magneto. However, he wasn't given any time to be embarrassed, for the wizard's attention had turned to the newest addition —unwelcome addition— to their company. "And who is this?" he asked. The others all turned to look at Logan.

"Er...my brother, apparently," said the Wolverine. "Gandalf, this is Victor...Victor what?"

"Victor _Creed_," said the Sabretooth. "I am your half-brother, Jimmy."

"That would be why you can't see any family resemblance between us, and I'm not Jimmy anymore, so don't you dare call me that," added Logan, turning back to Gandalf and ignoring the wizard's raised eyebrow. He would never admit that he and Victor had their similarities, not even if his life depended on it. "Apparently, he's been in Middle Earth longer than I have, and he worked for the guy you're here to replace. He's also worked for that other guy who looks just like you, Gandalf, and wants to take over the world, so I wouldn't trust him if I were you."

Victor growled deep down in his throat and took a swipe at his younger brother, who nimbly ducked and extended his claws.

"What's that?" said Gimli, just as the two antagonistic brothers were about to determine who was the top predator. Everyone turned to look in the direction Gimli was pointing to. All they could see were trees.

"What?" said Logan, confused.

"A distraction," said the dwarf. The revelation shocked them so much that they could only stare at Gimli for a few moments. He had a very distinct sense of humour, yes, but it wasn't like the dwarf to play a prank on anyone, not even such a minor one. However, when Logan had digested the information, he realized that Gimli had not been playing a prank. "We can't fight amongst ourselves, and you know it." Even the luxuriant red beard could not disguise the scowl on the dwarf's face. "The enemy is on our doorstep, and if you two kill each other, then that would be two less warriors to fight him."

"It would only be one," muttered Logan. "It's not like he can kill me. Anyway, there usually is a winner in a normal fight. This ain't Hollywood, where two people can kill each other at the same time. Uh...no, Hollywood is not a wood, and it isn't all that interesting, unless you like lots of flashing lights."

"I am glad to know that you can still confuse me, Master Logan," said Gandalf. He looked entirely serious, except for his twinkling eyes. "At least things have not changed too much."

"You haven't really been gone for that long," said Logan. "And you might want to know that you still confuse me. Why did you run last night? Aragorn invited you to sit by our fire."

"Run? I did no such thing," said Gandalf. "What makes you say that?"

"Well, I saw you, although...that wasn't you, was it? You smell different."

"Indeed, I was nowhere near you last night." The wizard was frowning. "The only members of your company I saw were your horses, so no, that was not me."

"Then it could only have been Saruman," said Aragorn quietly. His worry was evident; he wasn't the only one. The entire company was wondering what could have happened had the wayward wizard attempted to harm them. Would they have been able to harm him? Logan thought not. Wizards were wizards, after all; who knew what they could do with their superpowers? Most mutants only had one power. There seemed to be no limit to a wizard's powers.

"Then he must have taken our horses," said Legolas.

"No, that he did not," said Gandalf. "Your steeds are fine."

"You mean I'm gonna have to ride again?" said Logan. He didn't like the sound of getting back in the saddle. It was one of the most uncomfortable seats he'd ever sat in, and that was saying a lot. And the nag was one hell of a customer­—ride. It never listened to him. He could tug on the reins all he wanted, but it would still go wherever it desired, completely ignoring his commands or attempting to toss him off.

"Logan, you cannot possibly travel to Edoras on foot, can you?" said Gandalf with much amusement. "I am surprised that you, a soldier, did not ride into battle. Yes, Galadriel has told me some of your past. You need not be alarmed."

"How come everyone knows about me except me?" said Logan.

"Not everyone," said Boromir. "I, for one, do not know much about you."

"In fact, only three people know about your past, as far as I know," said Legolas. "Not counting you, that is, since you do not seem to understand it very much."

"You try losing your memory and see how much you understand," said Logan. "It ain't all that easy, all right?"

"I will have to take your word for it," said the elf in all seriousness. "I have no desire to experience what you are feeling now, and I have a lot more memories to lose."

"At least you are remembering something," said Boromir. "That is better than nothing."

"But why can't they just tell me if they know everything?" asked the Wolverine.

"Because the mind is not a box—" began Gandalf.

"Yeah, yeah," said Logan. "The mind is not a box to be opened and closed at will. I've heard that one before. Look, it's my mind, and I really don't mind if you tell me what's in it."

"To be quite honest with you, Lady Galadriel did not tell me very much at all," said Gandalf. "She said to let you recover your memories in your own time, and I agreed with her. It would be much more understandable, and less shocking, I would think. Have some patience, Master Logan. All will return in time."

"Exactly how much time are we talking about?" demanded Logan. "Because I'm tellin' you, I don't have that much time."

"I thought that being immortal, you had eternity," said Aragorn. "That is quite a lot of time."

"Fine! But I'd hate to wait that long," said Logan.

"I doubt it would take that much time," said Gandalf. "You have less than two centuries to remember. Compared to my advanced years, that is but a moment."

"Why is everyone rubbing their age in my face?" said Logan. "I know you're all ancient, all right?"

"I take offence to that," said Legolas. "Amongst my people, I am considered young."

"Then perhaps you should stop calling us children," said Aragorn.

"But you are children," said Legolas. "I cannot help it if that is the truth."

"I swear," muttered Logan. "One day, I am going to end up doing something to that elf that we'll both regret."

"I'll hold you to that, laddie," said Gimli. "But save it for after the war, when we will have the time to appreciate your brilliance."

"You mean you don't appreciate my brilliance at the moment?"

* * *

As they emerged from the forest, Logan was forced to shield his eyes from the bright sunlight. The clouds had dissipated while they had been in Fangorn, and although it was far from warm, the sunlight did something to alleviate the sense of doom which they had all begun to feel. Or perhaps that was just Gandalf's presence, and the knowledge that Merry and Pippin were hale and safe. At any rate, he was in a much better mood than when he had gone into the forest, and he might even be able to be friendly to his horse, if he could find the old nag, that was.

Gandalf gave a shrill whistle, and a whinny answered him. Logan heard the hooves of the horses as they galloped over from behind a hillock, where they had been grazing, presumably. In the lead was a white stallion with powerful long legs and a proud sledge-shaped head. His ears were pricked, and Logan got the sense that he was in the presence of equine royalty. The other five horses were behind him; submissive subjects.

The lead stallion trotted over to Gandalf and butted him affectionately. In return, the wizard patted his neck, almost like the way a soldier would clap another soldier on the shoulder. "This is Shadowfax, the chief of his kind," he said. "Your horses smelled him, and in their eagerness to greet him, they pulled out their tethers."

"So...this would be a horselord?" said Logan, eyeing Shadowfax with some degree of incredulity. How could a horse be so white? It wasn't natural. Horses were supposed to always have a bit of grey on them, unless they were albinos, and Shadowfax obviously was not.

"No, Shadowfax is one of the _Maeras_," said Gandalf. "The term 'horselord' refers to the Rohirrim. It would be advisable not to mix up horses and horselords."

"If someone had bothered to explain the difference, I wouldn't have made the mix-up in the first place," said Logan. He caught his horse's trailing reins. The animal snorted and tried to sidestep away from him. "Look, buddy," said the Wolverine. "I don't like this any more than you do, but we're stuck with each other so we might as well accept that fact and go with it until I can get rid of you and you can go back to your grass or whatever."

The horse squealed in response, as if he understood Logan perfectly and didn't like what he was hearing. Of course, if he had been able to understand the Wolverine, he really wouldn't have liked it. Logan put his foot in the stirrup and hauled himself into the saddle. He was quite proud of himself for not forgetting the reins, actually. Maybe he was making some progress with this riding business after all.

His horse tossed his head, pulling at the bit. In return, Logan tugged at the reins. The last thing he needed was for the infernal animal to run off, or roll, or scrape him off with a low-hanging branch. The possibilities were endless. "Whoa!" he said, although he felt more like swearing at the moment. However, he had been told that these horses didn't recognize profanities, and therefore that wouldn't have done him any actual good, although it might have made him feel better.

* * *

The plains of Rohan seemed endless. Logan didn't know how long he'd been bouncing in the saddle for ­—neither him nor his horse was enjoying this— but they just didn't seem to be going anywhere. Gandalf, riding bareback on 'Shadowfax' was at the front of the company, as was to be expected. The wizard had always led them, and just because he was now a 'White Wizard' didn't mean that was going to change. Behind him was Legolas, on his small but fiery stallion, with Gimli clinging on for dear life behind him. Well, at least Logan wasn't the only one having trouble with large herbivores. Aragorn was just behind the elf and the dwarf. Victor, as usual, had isolated himself from the rest of the company. The Wolverine wasn't sure if it was because they were hostile to him, or because he was hostile to them. Frankly, he didn't really care.

Logan, of course, was 'bringing up the rear'. With that nag being so uncooperative, where else would he be?

* * *

Edoras. Gandalf had said it was a city, but all Logan could see was a little settlement at the top of a hill, surrounded by a wooden palisade made of raw logs. The tops of them had been sharpened to add to the defence, but overall, it looked extremely vulnerable. Any mutant worth his salt could tear that apart, and if it was Pyro...well, that kid did love to throw fire around.

In contrast, proud gold and green banners flew in the wind. If anyone hadn't guessed what Rohan's favourite animal was by then, they had no excuse to remain ignorant of that fact any longer. The standards bore horses; proud, prancing, with arched necks and manes flying in behind them. For Logan, it was like stepping into a museum exhibit. While both Bree and Edoras were built by humans, they might as well have been built by different species. Despite the complete lack of impressive architectural structures, there was something very aesthetic about the way the city had been built. In particular, the large building at the very top of the hill with the thatched roof caught his eye. This was juxtaposition, and he wasn't sure if it had been done for the sheer effect. The exterior decoration told him that important things went on in there, and yet, no one had bothered to make tiles. No one seemed to think there was anything wrong with it. If this had happened to the White House or Buckingham Palace, people would have been gawking.

As they approached the city, they saw grassy mounds covered with small white flowers. The mounds were all too uniform in shape and size to be the result of natural processes, but Logan had no idea what they were. His knowledge of medieval customs was hazy, and even if he had been a bit more informed, he had no way of confirming that people in Middle Earth had exactly the same traditions as, say, medieval Rome.

Soldiers in full armour stood at the gate, which was a wooden arch, essentially. Even though the concept of plated armour was no longer alien to him, Logan still marvelled at the way they could move as if they weren't wearing sheets of metal on their bodies. The guards let the travellers pass without much question, although that might have something to do with the fact they seemed to recognize Gandalf, and maybe Boromir too. The old wizard had covered his new robes with a grey cloak. His elevated rank seemed to be a secret, and Logan had one or two ideas about why that might be. Along the way, the wizard had explained something about Saruman possessing the king's body. That in itself didn't seem to odd to Logan. Charles Xavier had been known to control the minds of others, although he had only done it when there had been no other choice. Saruman, it seemed, did not share the same morals as the mutant who had helped Logan so much.

As they rode into the city, the Wolverine could not help but stare at the state of the houses and the streets. The decay was not evident from afar, but upon close inspection, Edoras looked a bit like a village in a third world country which had seen better days. Actually, this could have been exactly the case. If an evil wizard had taken over the mind of the king, then who knew what Saruman could have done to this place?

The cobbled streets were in much need of repair. Rundown houses with thatched roofs were scattered all over the hilltop, and there were a couple of stables built of stone. As Logan rode through the city —and tried to keep his horse from wandering off in search of the nearest manger or water trough— he noticed that life here seemed to have stagnated. Where was the vivacity which ought to be in a city? This felt like London after the Blitz... where had that comparison come from?

Children with gaunt faces and sad eyes which belonged to people much older than them watched the travellers as they passed by. Although it was chilly —and if the Wolverine could feel it, then it was serious; he was Canadian, after all— some of them wore no shoes, and their clothes were so threadbare that Logan doubted they were very warm. Some of them had wrapped rags around their feet to stave off the cold. He heard the wailing of babies. The ones he could see had thick mucus running from their noses. Their eyes, which ought to have been full of cheer and curiosity, were empty with hunger. More often than not, these children were being looked after by other slightly older children. There were a few women —even thinner than the children­— and they also had the same empty expression in their eyes, as if they feared to feel emotion. Adult men, apart from the few soldiers, were very scarce indeed. Many of their menfolk had gone off to battle and never returned. They had wept so much that there were no more tears to be shed.

No one in the company said anything. Then again, they didn't need to, for they could easily imagine for themselves just how badly off the people of Edoras were. Logan desperately wanted to help, but he had no idea where to start. All right, he did have some idea, but he knew next to nothing about politics and magic... or whatever they called it here. That was more Gandalf's specialty, and maybe Legolas', and Boromir's... Heck, compared to him, even Victor would be an expert on Middle Earth's affairs.

They pulled to a stop just before the stone steps of the —great hall? Palace? Parliament? Senate? Well, he guessed it was some sort of big administrative hub, considering how many guards were stationed all around it. And for a building with a thatched roof, it did look quite impressive, at least now that he was standing right in front of it.

"Be very careful what you say in there," Gandalf murmured. "We are probably not welcome." The message was intended for all of them, but Logan had a feeling that it concerned him more than anyone else. However, he also felt that the wizard was overreacting. He knew not to speak in such a hostile situation; his claws would be more than adequate if he needed to express his opinions. Wait...maybe that suggestion applied to Victor too. He wasn't that talkative, but when he did talk, he had a barbed tongue and perfect aim, at least where Logan was concerned.

A contingent of guards stopped them at the doors, which looked like they ought to be in a museum. The wood was so old that the surface had been polished smooth by the thousands of hands which must have touched it over the years. The captain of the guard said something to Gandalf in yet another strange language. He sounded almost apologetic, and more than just a little embarrassed. The wizard replied in the same language. It sounded as if he was agreeing with whatever the man had just said. Logan felt a little uncomfortable about all of this; once again, he had no idea what was going on. He glanced around. Apart from Aragorn, no one else seemed to know what was happening either. For the first time he could remember, even Legolas looked mystified.

"I heard something about weapons," Boromir murmured into the Wolverine's ear. "However, they were speaking too quickly, and I am afraid I am not skilled enough in the tongue of the Riddermark to decipher the entire meaning."

"They want us to disarm," whispered Aragorn. "Grima Wormtongue is not amenable to the idea of having so many armed strangers inside the Hall of Meduseld, although it is King Théoden who has issued the order."

Logan raised an eyebrow. How was he supposed to properly disarm? It wasn't as if he could remove his claws. He could keep them hidden, but they would always be a part of him. However, he remained silent, as he didn't want to be kept outside while everyone else went in. What the guards didn't know wouldn't hurt them, and he didn't actually intend on using his claws anyway. Usually, adamantium enforced fists were good enough to crack most skulls. He didn't expect to find orcs or wargs in there.

Legolas was the first to hand over his weapons, after the wizard of course. He gave his quiver, bow and long white knives to the guardsman. "Take good care of these," he said, "for they are gifts from the Lady of the Golden Wood." The man took them as if they were made of glass and then hastily but gently set them down.

"You have my word that no one will touch them whilst my men and I are here to guard them," he said.

Logan handed over his sword —he hadn't even used it— while Victor waggled his gloved hands at the guards to show that he was 'unarmed'. Of course, the gloves hid the only weapons the Sabretooth would ever need in a close-range skirmish, just as Logan's skin hid his main weapons. At least they wouldn't be completely defenceless, although the Wolverine had a feeling that all hell would break loose should they actually use their claws. Then again, Victor probably would enjoy that. Boromir also handed over his sword and shield. That left Gimli and, surprisingly, Aragorn.

The ranger fingered his sword, but he made no move to take it off. "I am reluctant to give Anduril into the hands of any other man," he said.

"Yet, it is King Théoden's wish," said the captain of the guards.

"Although Théoden is King of Rohan and lord of the Mark, it is not clear to me that his wish should prevail over that of Aragorn, son of Arathorn, Elendil's heir," said the ranger. His voice was quiet, but no one could miss the stubbornness in it. Logan was surprised, actually. Never before had he heard his friend speak like this before, and invoking his true identity in order to back up his authority? Although he didn't really know what it meant, —Who was Elendil?— it was uncharacteristic of the ranger to try and impose his will over someone, especially a king. It revealed a really big ego, and before today, Logan had been quite certain that the ranger was a humble man. Now, he wasn't so sure.

As the ranger finished speaking, Logan heard Victor's sharp intake of breath.

* * *

The heir of Elendil? Here? Victor couldn't believe what he was hearing. This scruffy man was the heir to the throne of Gondor? His master had been searching for him all those years, without much success, and here he was, right before the Sabretooth's eyes.

He resisted the urge to lunge and take down his prey. Not yet. Now was not the time. There were too many people watching, and Jimmy was here. He would not like it if Victor tried to harm his friend. No; indeed, it would be better to wait for the opportune moment. They didn't exactly see him as a friend, or even just a trustworthy ally. And he had come for more than just Elendil's heir. There were bigger things to deal with, such as the problem of Saruman. At any rate, Elendil's heir was in his grasp. Once Victor had his sights set on something, they never escaped.

* * *

Hah! He was actually more sensible than Aragorn this time! Logan knew he was being smug, and it probably showed, but he didn't care. At least he hadn't been the one who had almost refused to give up his weapons. Then again, he still had his weapons. They just couldn't be detected, since these people didn't have metal detectors. He wasn't sure what was so special about Aragorn's sword. The ranger had made it sound as if it was the Holy Grail or something rather. It was just a sword with a fancy name, wasn't it? Even if it was an expensive heirloom of some sort, no one could tell, and therefore no one was likely to steal it. Ah, well. These people were strange; he ought to know that by now.

And Gandalf —he had talked the captain into letting him keep his staff. Walking stick indeed. Logan had seen what that 'stick' could do. So in short, the captain of the guards had truly failed to confiscate their weapons. If they needed to, they could probably put up a pretty good fight. Besides, who knew if the others had weapons hidden on themselves? The soldiers had not bothered to search them properly, trusting that they would be honest enough to hand over all their weapons. Well, Boromir probably would; that was how he was. And so would Legolas, and Gimli, and Aragorn, for that matter. So...well, maybe searching them hadn't been necessary.

The floor of the 'hall', as Logan called it, was made out large slabs of grey stone. A great fire burned in the hearth and smoky torches hung in metal brackets along the walls. The windows were high and rather small, and since it was winter, most of them were shuttered anyway, so most of the light came from the fire and the torches. At the very end of the hall was a golden seat, so large that it could easily dwarf Victor. An old man occupied that seat. His straggly hair was white —or grey; in this light, one could not tell— and his face was so wan that he looked as if he was made out of chalk. Rheumy eyes looked at them, but did not seem to see anything. He was swathed in a cocoon of furs, and on that pale head was a golden crown. _This_ was the king of Rohan? No wonder things were so dire.

Beside the king was another whey-faced man. This one was considerably younger, and he looked very spirited as he made his way down the hall towards them with slow deliberate steps, almost swaggering, even. His robe, also made of fur, trailed behind him. Logan wrinkled his nose as he caught his scent. There was body odour, and then there was body odour. This man smelled absolutely rancid, as if he had been cooped up indoors and wearing that robe for three years. By the looks of him, it was a possibility. He was about to make a remark about it, and then remembered that he probably should not speak, as this looked like a sensitive diplomatic matter.

Movement in the periphery of his vision caught his attention. He smelled hostility. Some men were prowling along the edges of the hall, their gazes fixed on these strange travellers. When it came to reading others' emotions, Logan considered himself to be a complete amateur, but even he knew that these men meant to do them harm. They were in for a surprise. The Wolverine forced himself to remain relaxed. It wouldn't do to alert them before they were ready. He wanted to take them by surprise.

The whey-faced man took one look at the travellers, gave a disdainful sniff, and then returned to the king's side, where he proceeded to whisper into the old man's ear, completely unaware of the fact that three of the strangers could hear him perfectly well. It sounded as if he was dictating lines to the king. It was most odd.

"Hail, Théoden, son of Thengel!" said Gandalf. His voice rang out clearly across the hall, and it echoed in the tall space.

"You will find no welcome here, Gandalf Stormcrow!" wheezed the king. "Ever have you been the bringer of ill news."

"You speak justly, milord," said the pale man at the king's side. "Trouble has always followed this conjurer wherever he may choose to wander. _Láthspell _you are, and they say ill news is an ill guest."

"You have become a witless worm, Grima, son of Gálmod," said Gandalf. "Therefore, remain silent, for I have not passed through fire and death to exchange words with one such as you."

Grima began to laugh, but his laughter was cut short when he saw the staff in the wizard's hand. "Did I not tell Hama to take his staff?" he cried. "That fool has betrayed us!"

That was when everything happened at once. The men lurking in the shadows suddenly sprang out, brandishing small daggers. The unfortunate observers dashed for cover even as Victor launched himself at the charging men, bowling them over with the sheer force of his leap. One man was thrown against the wall. There was a crack, and then he fell in a crumpled heap on the floor, still and lifeless. Grima was shouting at his men. Gandalf was chanting...something; Logan's own snarling more or less prevented him from hearing what was being said, not that he really cared. His fist slammed into someone's face. He felt bone crack and heard the cry of pain suddenly cut off. The man fell to the ground. The Wolverine didn't waste any time wondering about whether he'd killed him or just rendered him unconscious. A dagger glanced his face, leaving a shallow cut which healed immediately without even the slightest scar. Logan grabbed his attacker by the arm and then flung him into a pillar, wishing that he could kill him, but knowing that it would probably be better if he let the man live. Then he changed his mind when he caught sight of Grima's men surrounding those of his companions who did not have weapons. Out came the claws.

* * *

**A/N: **I hope you enjoyed the chapter.


	30. The Wolverine's Diplomacy

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize.

**Chapter 30: The Wolverine's Diplomacy **

Éowyn could hear the commotion coming from the Great Hall long before she reached it. People were screaming and shouting. Amongst all the noise, only one word actually came through, and that was because it was being used so often; monster. Had the orcs actually dared to attack Meduseld? This was too sudden. They were not prepared for this. She quickened her pace in her haste to reach the Great Hall. Her uncle was there, and if there was truly an orc attack, then that worm Grima would probably be behind it. She wasn't going to let any harm come to her uncle just because he had made the mistake of trusting that traitor.

This would not have happened had Théodred lived or even if Éomer had not been imprisoned for merely threatening the pale-faced advisor. As she drew closer, the sounds of battle became clearer. There was a lot of snarling and growling, and she began to fear that the orcs had brought their foul wolves with them. Then she became confused, because those growls and snarls did not sound like those of the orcs and wargs. In fact, they sounded like they had been made by men.

No matter; men or wargs or orcs, she was not going to sit by while her uncle was in danger. She made a slight detour. There was very little a shield maiden could do without a sword.

* * *

Boromir could only feel dismay as Logan revealed his true self and extended his claws for all the world to see. Well, not all the world; just all of Meduseld. Cries of alarm and horror erupted. The Wolverine might have thought that he was helping, and the Gondorian could not deny that his claws were going to increase their chances of holding off Wormtongue's men by several fold, but the diplomatic disaster which was going to ensue would be catastrophic, especially since they had been supposed to disarm. However, he didn't have time to worry as he ducked and expertly manoeuvred himself out of the way of a man who seemed intent on cutting something off him. He felt that would be most unbeneficial to himself; he'd already been shot.

Out of the corner of his eye, the Gondorian could see Victor enjoying himself. Logan liked a good fight, but he didn't enjoy killing fellow men. His brother, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy dealing out death and destruction to anyone and everyone. Victor did not discriminate when it came to killing. There was little surprise that their enemies seemed reluctant to approach the shaggy beast-like man. They weren't too keen on approaching Logan either, although that was quite understandable. Those lengths of metal protruding from his knuckles were lethal; any man —_anything_— knew that.

* * *

The Wolverine dove at the group of men surrounding his unarmed friends —which obviously excluded Gandalf, since the wizard looked rather formidable, performing an exorcism or something along those lines. His snarl was enough to shatter their courage, and the claws; well, they were just the finishing touch, really. Most of them scattered before he could even reach them, which was just as well, because tearing them apart with his claws would definitely cause a diplomatic crisis. Then again, he could always claim self-defence, and this looked like a coup anyway. What was a coup without a little bit of violence? The moment he decided to attack was the moment when the lady in white appeared.

They said that these women were ghosts of those who could not rest. They wandered their old abodes, looking for those who could finally end their unfinished business. Of course, it was all nonsense, for Logan was a practical and scientific man, but this woman certainly looked like a spectre. She was so pale that it looked as if the sun had never touched her. Her golden hair floated behind her like a pulsating aura. However, spectres did not often hold large gleaming swords. Nor did they stride into a room like that. Her presence commanded respect and attention. She was beautiful —not the way Galadriel and Arwen and Sidhien were beautiful— but her entire appearance suggested that she was also out of reach of any man, even if she was human. In short, Logan would _not _be attempting to flirt with her. She might just take offence and try to use that sword on him. While that would not do him much lasting damage, he didn't appreciate being impaled.

Well, there was no time for musing about pretty ladies in white. Besides, Aragorn seemed to be taking care of that. The woman had started to run towards the king —maybe she was his daughter? — but the ranger had stopped her and now seemed to be reasoning with her. As for the Wolverine, he had men to fight. Logan flung one of the men who had been foolhardy enough to attack him into a pillar. Before the man even hit it, the Wolverine had already turned his attention elsewhere. He aimed low, for the legs. As they leapt out of the way, dropped and swept his leg across the floor, tripping up a few of them. The claws were a last resort. As much as he was of the opinion that coups ought to be violent to be proper coups, the less bloodshed there was, the easier it would be for the diplomats in their company to resolve the issue.

Wormtongue was still shouting at his men —although he had wisely gotten out of the melee before it had even begun— and telling them to take out the two clawed men. Logan grinned, curling his lip to show his teeth. As if they could deal with him. Even Victor had not been able to defeat him, and Victor was the Sabretooth. He feinted with his claws, causing the men to take a step backwards. Some of the bolder ones made a half-hearted attempt at attacking, but they were more interested in putting on a show for their employer than actually taking on the clawed man. Well, Logan didn't care. He was getting impatient. He lunged, his claws slicing through their iron blades as if they had been made of mud. The metal shards clattered to the flagstones, ringing loudly as they did so. "You got more?" he asked "Bring it on, bub!"

He would have liked to have a nice fight and to show these boys a thing or two about proper combat, but that was not the point. The point was to ensure that his companions survived, at least until after Gandalf had performed his exorcism so that they could go onto the next step of the plan, about which he had no idea. Instead of charging at the men as he would have done on any normal occasion, he growled continually in his throat, not taking his eyes off them, all the while strategically manoeuvring himself so that he was right beside his friends. An almost gleeful roar distracted him. Ah, yes; how did one solve a problem like Victor? Logan had been careful not to cause more damage than had been necessary, but the other mutant certainly had no qualms about creating the largest diplomatic crisis ever known to Middle Earth...possibly. Should he stop him?

Before he could answer his own question, the king gave a loud cry of fear. Gandalf had thrown aside his grey cloak, revealing the robes of the White. They looked unbearably bright in the dimness, and Logan wondered if the wizard was using magic to make himself more impressive. Otherwise, he had no way of explaining why Gandalf had more light than the rest of them. Wait...he had already proved himself to be more than human, hadn't he? If Legolas, a 'young' elf, could glow, then why couldn't a wizard? It was sometimes hard to remember that Gandalf was not just any old man. He looked and sounded like someone's granddad until he did something like this. Then he sounded like a pagan priest, not that Logan knew what a pagan priest was supposed to be like. However, Gandalf was saying things which sounded like what a priest would say during an exorcism, although he was brandishing a staff instead of a crucifix. Otherwise, he could have been Father Gandalf instead of Gandalf the White.

"Hearken to me, Théoden, son of Thengel!" said the wizard. His voice had taken on a deeper timbre. The very foundations of the building seemed to vibrate as he spoke, and he exuded an aura of power. The light grew more intense until it finally culminated in a flash, so bright that for a moment, everyone was blinded. Logan hastily covered his eyes, but not quickly enough. When the light faded, floating spots of colour remained in his vision, no matter how much he blinked.

There was something different about the atmosphere. Wormtongue was lying on the floor with Gimli's foot pinning him to the stones. Others were cowering behind the pillars, as if that could protect them if Logan, Victor or Gandalf had really wished them harm. Victor was standing as still as a statue. Was it too much to hope that he had been somehow petrified by Gandalf's magic? No, he was breathing.

As for the king, there was something different about him. Sure, he was still an old man, and he was wheezing and gasping for air as if he had pneumonia or something. The woman in white had rushed to his side. Even as they looked on, the king grew younger—that did not sound right. People did not _grow_ younger, not even if one was the immortal Wolverine. And his hair was actually becoming shorter, as if it was retreating back beneath his scalp. All of this was too much for Logan; he thought he was hallucinating.

Gandalf looked like an old man again; a very energetic old man, but just an old man nonetheless. He, too, was breathing harshly. His shoulders heaved as he sucked in draughts of air like a man who had been denied his right to breathe. "What just happened?" whispered Logan, partly to himself and partly to anyone who would care enough to answer him. No one did, of course, since they were too busy trying to digest what they were seeing. "Right," muttered Logan. He rubbed his filthy face with an equally filthy hand. "I'll just stumble along and try to figure this out. Let's see..." Well, the king looked better than he had before, and he didn't sound like he was being possessed by the Devil. That had to be an improvement. And no one was panicking or trying to kill anyone else —Gimli was standing on Wormtongue, more or less, but that didn't count as trying to kill him— so that had to be a good thing, right?

"You are free again, Lord of the Mark and King of Rohan," said Gandalf. The king stared at the wizard as if he was trying to remember who he was. Then he stood, slowly, rising like an old man with stiff joints. The fur cloak wrapped around him fell away and landed at his feet.

"Gandalf, my friend," he said. His voice was soft, so different from the one which had issued from his lips only moments before. Those once-rheumy eyes were clear now. Recognition crept into them as he stared around himself at all those faces turned to him. Especially that of the lady in white. She was weeping. The spring thaw was here. "Éowyn, beloved niece," he said. Ah, so that was her name. Éowyn. Wait...if she was King Théoden's niece, then she had to be Éomer's cousin...or even sister. Yes, he could see the familial resemblance.

Men bowed as the King descended from the dais where his throne was. His steps were slow, a little uncertain at first, but becoming firmer as he continued to walk with his niece by his side. Even Gandalf and Boromir dipped their heads in respect. Logan hurriedly did the same, and then remembered that he ought to execute a proper bow, but the King had already passed him. "Where are Théodred and Éomer?" he asked.

It was as if all the joy of seeing the king restored to his normal state of mind had been leeched out of the hall at the mention of those two people. Éowyn lowered her head and then reached out to take her uncle's hand. "Théodred is gone, milord," she said softly. Her voice quivered as she fought to hold back the sobs which threatened to spill over.

The King's shock was evident. He gripped turned around abruptly to face his niece. "How?" he demanded. His voice was barely a whisper, but they heard it as clearly as if he had shouted it. "When?"

"He was ambushed, milord," said one of the men. "By orcs."

Théoden's anguished cry echoed through the Hall of Meduseld. It was the most haunting thing Logan had ever heard; so much pain, so much guilt, so much regret. What would it feel like for a father to lose a child? Would it hurt more or less than losing a lover? Could it even be compared? He shook his head. This was something he never wanted to find out.

Éowyn held her uncle as sobs wracked his body. Tears were running down her face too, but instead of seeking comfort, she was offering it. This was a woman worthy of Logan's respect. She was so strong and proud, like an ancient warrior queen. He could imagine her standing before armies and leading them into battle, although he knew that it was a ridiculous image; Middle Earth, being the sort of society it was, probably didn't let women fight, even though Éowyn had obviously decided to learn anyway. Why else would she be holding that sword like professional? Not only did she know how to use that weapon, but she was also good at it too. As a fighting man, Logan could tell from the way she moved and carried herself.

At length, Théoden dried his eyes and straightened himself. The father was now hidden behind a mask; this was the king, and he could not show any weakness. He motioned with his hand to the men guarding the door. The meaning was clear.

"Open!" someone shouted. "Open for the king!" With a groan, the doors swung open and light poured into the hall, illuminating the flagstones and dispelling shadows. Cold fresh air rushed in and the smell of stale air almost immediately dissipated. Théoden, for what must have been the first time in a long time, stepped out into the pale sunlight. At first, he shielded his eyes with his hand. Having spent so long in the gloom, it took him time to adjust.

The people of Edoras had gathered outside Meduseld, some out of curiosity and others out of genuine concern. The sounds of fighting had been clear enough. They now stared at their king as if they did not know what to expect. Some of the younger ones had never seen him at all before, so seldom had he come out after Saruman had taken over his mind.

"All hail Théoden, King!" cried the herald. Slowly, but gladly, the people of Edoras knelt before the man who was to lead them through this dark age. Logan knew that they were relieved simply to have someone to look to again. God knew how long they had been leaderless for.

Théoden surveyed his land and his people. His clear blue eyes roamed over everything, drinking in the sights as if he was seeing them for the first time. Gandalf stood just behind him, patiently waiting for some sort of response. In Logan's world, the wizard would have made the perfect shrink. "My dreams have been dark of late," said the king. It was meant for Gandalf, but how was the poor man to know that Logan could hear him? "I would that you had come earlier, Gandalf, for I now fear I have awakened only to see the end of my house. What is to be done?"

"There is much to be done," replied Gandalf gently, "but first, release Éomer, for I believe that you imprisoned him after hearing the counsel of Grima Wormtongue."

"That I did," said Théoden, "for he dared to threaten my advisor in my own halls."

"A man may love you and despise Grima Wormtongue," said Gandalf. "And Grima has proven himself unworthy of the trust you placed in him."

Théoden seemed to think about that for a while, and then he nodded. "Very well," he said. "He shall be released and brought before me for judgement." It sounded ominous; much too ominous for so minor an offence. Threatening someone was not a crime. Logan did it all the time and never got into any trouble for it. All right, threatening to put kids in detention for a week was hardly something which qualified for police attention. Wait...if threatening Grima Wormtongue was good enough for a jail sentence, then what did waving claws at him entail? He wasn't keen to find out.

"And it is my wish that your companions answer for their actions, Gandalf," continued Théoden. "They took up arms against my men and against my orders, for I distinctly remember that I gave orders for all of you to disarm. While it might not have been your intention to harm me, I cannot allow such blatant disregard for my wishes within my halls to be tolerated."

That almost did it for Logan. He was tired, he was worried and stressed and he was hungry, therefore it was fair to say that he was not in the best mood. If he was going to be court-martialled, he was damn well going to show them what he could do. He opened his mouth, but Boromir had anticipated his intentions. The Gondorian held him back —quite impressive, really, since hardly anyone could do that. However, Logan respected his friend's opinions, especially when it concerned such matters.

"That will not help," murmured the nobleman. "Leave diplomacy to those who know something about it, my friend. Force does not solve every problem."

Logan wanted to say that it had worked well enough for him so far, but he knew it would be counter-productive. He knew that violence wasn't the answer to everything. That was what he told the kids when they started fighting. He just wasn't very good at learning his own lesson. Old habits were hard to get rid of, and besides, his urge to fight was more instinctive and habitual. He was a top predator after all.

Gandalf glanced in his direction as if he could sense what the Wolverine had been about to do. The look in his eyes was unmistakeable. 'Don't do anything stupid.' That was what Gandalf was telling him. The wizard might not have worded it that way, but the meaning was the same. Logan clenched his fists. He'd give them half an hour to sort this out. If he was still destined for court-martial after that, then he would do something about it himself. Victor would be more than happy to help, he was sure. He might not like his brother very much but at times like these, he made for a very useful ally.

* * *

The hall was once again full. Everyone needed for the 'trial' —which Logan thought was a farce because there was no jury— was there, except for the defendant. That was probably why everyone was chattering, or rather, pretending to chatter while they were all in fact staring at the king and trying to look as if they were not. Behind closed doors, Théoden's mask of strength was set aside. He was a troubled old man who'd just lost a son and who was becoming more and more frustrated with his helplessness. The king kept on clenching and unclenching his fists as he spoke to Gandalf in soft tones, discussing the next course of action.

"You will remember your old strength better if you grasp your sword," remarked Gandalf. Huh? That made no sense, at least not scientifically. Maybe Théoden had a magic sword which granted strength to whoever was wielding it. That was the only plausible explanation Logan could come up with.

"But where has Grima put it?" said Théoden.

"Take mine, milord!" cried a voice. The high roof of the hall magnified it many times so that it seemed as if it surrounded them. All heads turned in the direction of the speaker. Standing directly opposite the king at the other end of the hall was Éomer. The man stood proud and tall, just as Logan had remembered, although he had removed his helmet. Tawny hair, like the mane of a lion, surrounded his face. Even in the gloom of the hall, his gaze was no less intense. His stint in prison had done nothing but strengthen his resolve to drive out anything linked to Saruman, or Sauron, for that matter. "It has always been in your service." With that, Éomer unstrapped his sword from his belt, went up to the dais where his uncle sat upon his throne, knelt, and presented the sheathed weapon to the king with both hands.

"You have your sword?" asked Théoden sternly. "And you dare to wear it in my presence?"

"It was my doing, Sire," said the guard who had been sent to fetch Éomer. "I was so overjoyed that the Marshal was to be set free that I brought him his sword when he asked."

"I only asked so that I could offer it to you as a sign of my loyalty," said Éomer. They waited, and waited. Finally, Théoden reached down, wrapped his gnarled fingers about the plain hilt of his nephew's blade and pulled. It was a miracle, for as he unsheathed the sword, he seemed to stand straighter as if the burden on his shoulders had been lifted. The king stared at the blade contemplatively for a long time even as his people cheered and said something in their own tongue which Logan did not even try to decipher, and then he handed it back, hilt first, to Éomer.

"Rise, Éomer, sister-son," he said. "Hama!" The man who had been guarding the door came forward and knelt at his liege's feet, awaiting orders. This would have caused so much uproar back home. As prestigious as the president of the United States was, no one got onto their knees in front of him. Well, there was the occasional affair with ambitious women...but no, Logan was not going to compare _that_ to the solemn ceremony unfolding before his eyes. "Follow Grima and ensure that he finds my sword," said Théoden. "And then maybe you should help him to clean the rust from his own blade."

"Of course, my lord," said the man. After having failed to disarm the strangers, he was eager to make up for his mistake. Dragging the whimpering Grima to his feet, the guardsman escorted him away and out of the hall, leaving them free to continue with whatever they had been doing before.

Uncle and nephew were quickly reconciled after Éomer renewed his oath of allegiance to the king. That did not bode well for Wormtongue and it was hard to tell how it boded for the Wolverine. After all, he had fought inside the king's hall with claws. If he had to be his own lawyer, then he would argue that technically he had broken no laws because he highly doubted the Rohirrim had laws against claws. However, the justice system probably didn't work that way.

* * *

"While they might have violated your laws, they did so out of ignorance and self-defence," Gandalf was saying. Indeed, he really could double as a lawyer as well as a shrink and a diplomat. And like any good lawyer, he had advised his clients not to speak. It was proving to be rather difficult for Logan. He really wanted to give everyone present a piece of his mind. Victor, on the other hand, looked completely bored. Now that Saruman was gone, he was back to being his usual irritating and arrogant self.

"I gave orders specifically for you to disarm," said Théoden.

"Disarm implies the removal of all weapons _not_ attached to the body and not dangerous body parts," said Gandalf. "Master Logan can hardly remove his claws, and neither can Master Victor."

"They should have remained outside, then, if they cannot disarm properly," said Théoden. He was not giving up. Maybe trashing a king's hall had an adverse effect on said king's mood.

"With all due respect, sir, we weren't specifically told what we were allowed to bring in and what we weren't," said Logan. Nope, he couldn't stand it any longer. That just burst out of him before he could stop himself. Calling Théoden 'sir' was already a lot of self-control on his part. "They wanted our swords but no one ever asked for our claws so there was no way I would have known that you can't bring claws before the king."

"Yet you knew how dangerous your claws were," said Théoden. He sounded like a principal who was giving a kid a talking to; a very old-fashioned and harsh principal.

"Then I'd say you're discriminating against us and that I might as well leave if you're gonna be racist," said Logan, crossing his arms. It was a gamble, but he liked the risk. Besides, he had an argument prepared.

"I beg your pardon?" The king, instead of looking annoyed or embarrassed the way Logan wanted him to, appeared to be puzzled.

"You're treatin' me an' Victor more harshly because we're different," said Logan. "We're men who have claws and you don't like that. Yet you let your dogs inside and they have claws, and your men were carryin' weapons of all kinds and they meant to do a lot of harm and would have if we hadn't stopped them. So if we are the only ones who are gonna be punished because we didn't disarm completely, then it is obvious that you are discriminatin' against us and therefore I see no reason why we should stay."

Silence; total and utter silence. Outside, a goat bleated and a dog let off a series of barks. A woman was shouting at her child. A baby cried. As each moment passed, Logan felt increasingly successful. He had rendered them speechless with his brilliance and logic. Who would have thought?

"Would you care to explain your meaning?" asked Théoden at last. It was utterly unbelievable. Had no one understood his argument? How was that possible? He thought he'd made it quite straightforward.

"What Logan means is that he does not think it fair that he is punished for using his claws when there were other armed men attacking him," said Gandalf. Uh...well, maybe Gandalf was still the better lawyer.

"And I'll leave if you don't amend that. That way, I'll be out of your hair an' you'll be out of mine," said Logan. "That just means I'll be out of your way and you'll never see me again."

"Milord, I do not think that will be beneficial," said Éomer suddenly to his uncle. Now, this was most unexpected. Logan hadn't thought that the king's nephew might be on his side. Why would Éomer side with him? He didn't even really know him all that well, having only met once before.

"And why is that?" asked Théoden.

"These men are clearly accomplished warriors, milord," said Éomer. "With the enemy on our doorstep, we need every man we have. While they might have broken the laws of our people, I believe that it would be beneficial to all if they redeemed themselves by fighting for us."

Murmurs of approval greeted that suggestion. No one truly wanted to offend the two people with claws and this seemed to be the perfect solution; not only would they be able to enforce their laws, they would also get some much needed aid in their fight against Isengard. While Théoden was an autocrat just like every other monarch, he was a wise autocrat. He turned to the two clawed men. One of them was filing his claws in plain sight. He ignored him and focused on the one who looked like he cared. "What say you?" asked the king.

"Don't you get to decide since you're the king and all that?" said Logan.

"By rights, I do get to decide since I am 'the king and all that'," said Théoden. "However, I am interested in hearing what you think."

"Well, for all it's worth, I think it's fair," said Logan. "Wait...is it just Victor and me who are getting punished or is everyone else getting punished too?"

"If the two of you are staying behind to fight, then it goes without saying that the rest of us are staying behind as well," said Aragorn. "It would be most unbeneficial for us to separate. What do you say?" He turned to the rest of his companions. Legolas was nodding slowly, and Gimli couldn't agree more emphatically if he had tried. That left only Boromir. The Gondorian seemed to have his doubts about it. A frown creased his brow as he considered the implications.

"I ought to be returning to my own country to defend my people," he said.

"Alone, Lord Boromir?" asked Théoden. Secretly, he wanted Boromir of Gondor to remain behind to help them. While the two clawed men might be formidable warriors, they would not make much impact on a battlefield where there were thousands of fighters. Boromir, however, was known as one of the best military strategists in Middle Earth. His presence could be the difference between defeat and victory.

"If need be, yes," said Boromir.

"But didn't we agree that we'd all go together and I'd help you with whatever you needed?" said Logan. "You can't go back on your promise."

"But I cannot put off my return any longer," said the Gondorian. "Sauron is on the move and soon he will reach the walls of Minas Tirith? What then? What will happen if I am not there to lead the defence?"

"And so what if you are there?" asked Logan. "If that dark lord is really that powerful then I doubt even a military genius can hold him off, no offence. Besides, if you don't stay, then you might find yourself fighting a war on two fronts if we lose over here. If you stay and help, you might just get yourself an ally." The last sentence was meant as a hint to the Rohirrim, although he was sure that Éomer would insist on returning the favour if Boromir did help them. He seemed like that type of person. Logan didn't know that much about Théoden, so he couldn't really say anything about the king. Besides, he was a politician and politicians could not be trusted, at least not in Logan's book.

Boromir looked torn, which he probably was. This was a huge dilemma for him and Logan knew it. On the one hand, an ally would be very helpful, but on the other hand, there was no knowing how much of an impact such a delay would have on Gondor's chances and he could not gamble with his country's survival. It didn't take a psychologist to see that. At long last, the Gondorian took a deep breath. "I will stay, so long as I have your word that you will come to our aid when we need you," he said to Théoden. As he spoke, he stared directly at the king's face, almost challenging him. Théoden stared right back, his gaze unwavering.

"You have my word," he said. "Let Rohan and Gondor stand together as comrades once more!"

Cheers rose and mingled, becoming one thunderous roar, challenging the might of Isengard and Mordor. Retaliation had begun.

* * *

**A/N: **I hope you enjoyed the chapter. I found it a little difficult to capture the spirit of the Rohirrim court. If you find mistakes, please tell me. I can hardly keep my eyes open at the moment and therefore I'm having a little trouble spotting them.


	31. Exodus

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Cal: **I'm glad you're still enjoying the story.

_I'm pretty sure I answered everyone's reviews, but I have a terrible memory. If I accidentally neglected yours, I apologize. _

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize.

**Chapter 31: Exodus**

Logan sat back and allowed the hot water to ease his tight muscles. This was heavenly. Steam curled upwards towards the ceiling. He was slowly smoking the second to last of his cigars. After everything he had been through, he deserved to indulge a little. Hygiene had never been one of his top priorities, but even he wouldn't refuse the offer of a hot bath after that long trek across the plains of Rohan. He blew out a stream of smoke. The shutters were closed, not because he was shy, but because he was very interested in keeping the heat inside and the cold outside.

His clothes had been taken for laundering, but thankfully, the Rohirrim were human and tended to have broader shoulders than the elves. Plus, they didn't think long dress-like robes were suitable for males either, so someone had kindly provided him with breeches and a shirt. Overall, apart from the near court-martial, their hosts had been pretty hospitable. They'd even provided decent food, despite the fact that their nation was ravaged by war.

He had almost dozed off when shouts from outside penetrated his thoughts, making him leap up. Water cascaded off his body. Grabbing the borrowed clothes, he pulled on the breeches and threw the shirt over his shoulders, slipping his arms into the sleeves as he ran outside, not even bothering with the buttons. His feet remained bare. The air was sharply cold against his wet skin. His open shirt flapped as he ran. He knew people were staring at him, but he didn't care. Whatever had just happened, he felt that was more important than getting dressed properly, and he could deal with the cold. He was Canadian.

"He said he did not need me to accompany him inside," one of the men, who was very distressed, was saying to the king. Théoden was now properly attired in a brocade tunic and a fur-trimmed cloak. The others were with him. Clearly, they had not spent that much time sitting in a nice hot bath, enjoying a nice smoke after a long cheerless march. Of course, Victor wasn't there, and there was no knowing where he had gone, not that Logan cared.

"You believed him, Hama?" said Théoden.

"I did not know..." said the poor guardsman. Logan recognized him now. That guy was not having a good day.

"Logan?" said Legolas. The elf had spotted him. "What are you..." He looked the mutant up and down, taking in his state of undress. Instead of looking awkward, Legolas seemed to be amused.

"My goodness, Logan," said Gandalf. "What are you doing out here half-dressed?"

"I thought there was an emergency," said the Wolverine. Yeah, so he half-naked—not even that, actually. He had clothes; he simply hadn't put them on properly. What was so weird about it? It wasn't as if he was showing anything inappropriate. Hadn't he once jumped down a waterfall completely naked sometime long ago? "So, what happened?"

"Wormtongue escaped," said Éomer. "He climbed out a window and took a horse."

"You want me to track him down?" said Logan.

"It's too late for that, Master Logan," said Gandalf. "And do you not want to get dressed? I am beginning to feel cold just looking at you."

"I could never be that confident," Boromir was murmuring to Aragorn, all the while glancing sideways at Logan.

"It's all in your head, pal," said Logan with a grin. "A matter of psychology. Fine, fine, I realize I'm attractin' crowds and you don't know the next thing about psychology so I'm just gonna head back and get dressed properly, 'kay?"

"That sounds like an excellent idea to me," said Gandalf. As Logan turned around, he saw the wizard shaking his head in the periphery of his vision. The wizard was muttering something about 'that boy'.

* * *

They couldn't stop arguing. No one could agree on what to do. Gandalf was all about retreating to some place called 'Helm's Deep' and weathering out the storm, as it was, while Théoden wanted to stand and fight without abandoning the capital city. Everyone was there, even Victor, although he stood slightly apart from the rest of them, leaning against a pillar with his arms crossed, as if he knew that his presence was not all that welcome. Most of them were merely listening while the wizard and the king debated the merits of both plans. Occasionally, Aragorn and Boromir would add their own input.

"Edoras is not defensible," the wizard was saying. "You do not have the numbers, nor do you have the equipment needed. Think about your people. They are not prepared for this war."

"We have men at Snowbourn," said Théoden. "They will come if I summon them."

"But not soon enough, I fear," said Gandalf. "At any rate, it would be easier to defend your people should you take refuge in Helm's Deep."

"What's in Helm's Deep?" Logan whispered to Boromir.

"That is Rohan's fortress," replied the Gondorian. "The great king, Helm Hammerhand, retreated there when an overwhelming force attacked him."

"But we don't have an overwhelming force about to attack us, do we?" said Logan. "I mean, that Saruman sounds like a nasty piece of work but he can't be that bad."

"He definitely can be that bad," said drawled Victor. His interruption was so sudden and loud that everyone turned to look at him. "I saw it all with my own eyes." He uncrossed his arms and stepped forward until he reached the table where the rest of the group were sitting. Some of Théoden's advisors moved away to give the large man some room. Victor placed his giant clawed hands on the table and then leaned forward. "He has pits and underground tunnels filled with troops. Everyday, he is making more and more of them. In another section, away from where they're breedin' the orcs, they keep their wargs. Trust me, you can't hold them off here in this little hilltop city with wooden palisades."

"And how would you know so much about Saruman?" said Théoden. His eyes were filled with suspicion, and rightly so.

"You really wanna know?" said Victor. "Well, I'll tell you what. I worked for him for a couple of years until I got out. I know what he's plannin' and it ain't pretty. He's got the Dunlendings helping him too, and they'd be more than happy to burn down your city with all of you inside it if they ever got the chance."

"Then what do you suggest we do?" asked Éomer.

"Go to your little fortress," said Victor. "You might not be able to hold him off even then, but hey, you have a better chance there than here."

"Can I kill him?" asked Logan. "He's gettin' on my nerves."

"It is unethical to slay your own brother, Logan," said Aragorn.

"Technically, he's only my half brother."

* * *

It took a bit of persuasion on Gandalf's part, but Théoden finally agreed to retreat to Helm's Deep and wait for reinforcements there, albeit rather reluctantly. Logan understood exactly why. As someone who produced testosterone, running didn't go down with him so well either, but he trusted Gandalf's judgement because the wizard was ancient and he'd always proven to be right, at least thus far. Actually, Moria had been a bit of a misjudgement, in Logan's opinion, but considering no long term harm had been done, he was willing to let that slide.

Gandalf himself had already left to go to some place called 'Snow Born' to find the much needed reinforcements. This was one of those times when Logan really missed an ingenious little invention called the cellphone. While they could be extremely annoying at times —and they kept on shrinking so much that Logan had lost a few down various places— they could also be quite useful. In this case, it would be so much easier if they could just call the commander at 'Snow Born'. However, there was no point in daydreaming about the impossible.

The whole of Edoras was preparing for this exodus; women and children loaded whatever meagre belongings they had onto rickety wooden carts with wobbly wheels. Sometimes, the young ones had to carry the family's belongings while their grandparents were put on the carts and wagons instead. The entire city was rife with the bleating and bellowing of livestock as they were pulled along, out of the only home they could remember, and onto a long road which was supposed to lead them to safety. It was thought that at Helm's Deep, they could weather out the storm.

Logan gave whatever help he could, fixing broken wagons —he had no idea he was so good at carpentry, but his body seemed to remember those skills from a past life— and threatening disobedient animals. He also helped with the heavier lifting, of course, being one of the few men who weren't charged with some military duty and who hadn't lost a limb. He wasn't a lord, so it wouldn't be inappropriate for him to help with manual labour. In fact, that seemed to redeem him in the eyes of many Rohirrim and make up for the fact he brandished claws in the Hall of Meduseld. There were smiles coming his way now, at least from the old women he helped. It would take much longer for his charm to work on the king.

The younger women seemed to like him too. At least, he surmised as much from the way they were looking at him when they thought he wasn't watching. Whenever he did glance up, they turned their gazes away. Logan supposed he was an attractive man. No, wait, he _knew_ he was an attractive man. If it had been in any other circumstance, he would have been pleased and rather smug about the amount of attention he was getting, but right now, he simply didn't care. The only woman whose attention mattered to him now was Sidhien. It had been too long since he'd last seen her. Did she miss him? Oh, of course she did. She cared about him enough to mend his jacket, didn't she? Speaking of which, was there any way he could get a message back to her, like send a letter? Oh, right. He didn't write elvish or any of the written languages in Middle Earth, and his artistic skills were dismal. Hmm...would he be able to get one of his friends to write it for him? Probably not Legolas, as the elf would laugh at his complete lack of poetic skill, and not Aragorn, who seemed to be experienced in matters of love and might find Logan's attempt at romance to be amusing —and Logan didn't like being the butt of all jokes— so that left Gimli, Boromir and Gandalf, who was not there at the moment. Out of the three of them...

"Logan, are you even listening to me?" Ah, that would be Aragorn.

"You need me for somethin'?" asked Logan.

"I was asking if you wanted to ride or if you preferred to walk," said Aragorn, "because if you would prefer to walk, then your horse can be put to better use."

"What sort of question is that?" said Logan. "Do you even need to ask it? Of course I prefer to keep off the damn nag!" People all around turned to look at him, and he remembered too late that the horse had been a generous gift from an esteemed warrior whose people loved horses. "I mean, I'm not ungrateful or anything, but it's just that we mutually dislike each other. I'm sure he'll be happier off without me."

"I see that despite all your animosity, you really do care about your steed's welfare," said the ranger. He sounded much too amused for Logan's liking.

"Of course I care," he scoffed. "Sometimes I pretend I ain't got a heart, but I really do."

"I never took you for someone heartless, Master Logan," said the ranger solemnly. "In fact, you sometimes have too much heart."

"You can have too much heart?" Logan was mystified.

"Too much heart, and not enough of something else," said the ranger with a mischievous wink. Before Logan could think of a retort to that, he strode off, as if trying to live up to his alias.

"Not enough of something else?" muttered Logan. What could he possibly be lacking, unless it was patience, of course, and he knew he didn't have nearly enough of that. He didn't want to think of any other options, although he was pretty sure he knew what his friend meant. He would get him back for that later and then the ranger would find out that the Wolverine didn't lack much in that aspect either.

* * *

The winding column of people trailed over the plains and gentle hills like a snake draped over the landscape. Progress was slow, if there was any. Logan had to admit that he was running out of patience, and he suspected Saruman's minions wouldn't be that considerate of their speed. If the wizard attacked now, they were all going to be in deep shit, to put it poetically. But what could they do? There were not enough horses, and there was no way to speed up a hand pushed wooden cart. Frankly, it was just all bad luck.

Despite the fact that they were fleeing for their lives, he was still attracting attention, and he wasn't even trying! Many people, now more accustomed to his presence, although not to him as a person, were staring at him openly. 'No, Logan,' he told himself. 'No claws.' They were already intimidated enough by Victor. There was no need to frighten them further unnecessarily.

He had been assigned to the rearguard, through recommendation by Gandalf, who felt that his keen hearing and sense of smell would benefit them should anything try and ambush them from behind. In actuality, this meant he had to tell people to keep up and make sure little toddlers didn't get left behind by careless, slightly older siblings. Maybe _this_ was part of the reason the wizard had wanted him here. As gruff as he might seem, he was a fairly good babysitter. Sometimes, Logan wished he had never told anyone he had had dealings with children. It didn't go well with his reputation as a fearsome former mercenary who assassinated members of parliament —at least he assumed he did— and infiltrated secret services.

None of the Rohirrim seemed to have any inclination to talk to him. The only people he did know were in the vanguard. He knew that Boromir, Aragorn, and Théoden would be in some sort of war council, and Éomer would be there too. Victor was also at the front, mainly because no one wanted the two brothers to come to blows yet again and the best way to prevent that was to separate them. While that seemed like a good idea to his rational side, the wilder part of Logan could not help but feel that life would have been a bit more interesting if Victor had been assigned to the rearguard as well. That way, at least he would have someone to snap at and who would snap back.

At the moment, they were slowly making their way around a lake. The water's surface was smooth, almost perfectly reflecting the blue sky and the mountains in the distance, if not for the gentle breezes which sent ripples across the otherwise glassy surface. It took an entire morning for the company of sorry-looking refugees to get past the lake, leaving a trail of trampled grass behind them. The terrain became more mountainous. Their course followed the bottom of a cliff which looked as if it would collapse should the rains come. Logan hoped they would not come, because that was recipe for disaster. Even he wasn't immune to death by live burial.

The wind was blowing towards the Wolverine, carrying all the scents which a crowd of unwashed peasants and armoured soldiers ought to have. Usually, Logan was good at ignoring the barrage of smells coming his way, but not today. There was something unusual about it. Body odour was all very well, if it was livestock and human, but mingled with those usual scents were other slightly less familiar ones. He remembered smelling them before. Then he let out an involuntary growl and extended his claws, startling anyone who was within earshot. They pulled out their weapons. Just as well, because at that moment, a big slavering something leapt over the edge of the cliff above them.

Instinct seized him. Without taking any time to analyze just what had happened, the Wolverine pounced on the creature leaping from the cliff. The impact sent the two of them flying off to one side. Amidst the loud growls —both his and the beast's— and the frightened screams, he could discern one word and he was not at all surprised by it.

"Wargs!"

Logan's claws entered the beast's mouth, pierced the upper plate and went straight through to the brain, all the while, he was trying his best to avoid the wild hacks of the warg rider's —wargs could be ridden?— crude blade. The warg was cut off mid-whimper. It gave a few convulsions and then fell limp, sending its rider flying head over heels.

"I knew that!" Logan hollered back at the rest of the soldiers who were busy announcing to everyone that they were being attacked by wargs. His claws were covered with semi-solid grey matter and a lot of dark sticky blood. He didn't care. His immune system worked well enough against all those pathogens. The only time he remembered being properly sick was the time when he had dreamed about being a small boy.

The warg's rider, now devoid of his steed, snarled at the approaching clawed man as he backed against the cliff. The orc —which looked more like the ones which had attacked them at the giant waterfall than those of Moria— was quickly dispatched, although not nearly quick enough. The baying of those hell hounds were growing louder. Soon, there would be more for Logan to deal with, and as quick and efficient a killer he was, he wasn't sure he was efficient enough to process so many at the same time.

The thundering of horses' hooves behind him told him that he might not have to do it all on his own. The warriors of Rohan had come to hold off their enemies, hoping to buy enough time so that their women and children could escape to the relative safety of Helm's Deep. "How many?" demanded Théoden.

"More than enough," replied Logan. Was he supposed to estimate their number based on how much howling and snarling he heard? He was the Wolverine, not a mathematical prodigy.

"That is a given, Logan," said Boromir. He seemed to be more or less fully recovered, or he was just very good and pretending that he was all right. And...oh God. Not that nag! The Gondorian was leading Logan's disagreeable steed behind him. "I thought you might need him."

"Erm...yeah," said Logan as he clambered into the saddle. Boromir had meant well, and he couldn't reject the horse while Éomer was watching.

"Believe me," remarked Victor as he galloped past them. "Horses aren't gonna do much good against these."

The creatures appeared over the horizon like a horde from Hell. Their bloodthirsty baying made many warriors' blood run cold, but they did not faze, even if some of the younger ones did flinch. The horses whinnied in fear and tried to turn around, but somehow, their riders managed to keep them under control. Logan, on the other hand, was finding it increasingly difficult to keep his horse from bolting off with him clinging to the saddle. That would be such an undignified exit for the Wolverine, especially since the Wolverine didn't want an exit.

"Listen, you," he hissed as he jerked at the reins. "You keep this up and I'm gonna feed you to the wargs, got it? And I mean it, bub." That had no effect on the animal whatsoever. Just as well Théoden decided to charge at that moment, and Logan and his horse were swept along with all the rest.

Victor was right —and Logan hated it when Victor was right; the horses were completely useless against the wargs, unless they were smart like Logan's and swerved to avoid the giant predators, tossing their riders off in the process. In that case, they were less than useless.

Logan let out a string of profanities as he hit the ground. It wasn't that the ground was hard or that it hurt, but his dignity was bruised, especially since _Victor_ was riding around with the expertise of a cowboy accustomed to competing in rodeos. Wait...no. The Sabretooth had gotten off his giant of a horse. More like leapt off it and onto a warg's back, displacing the original rider. He barked out a sharp command to the creature. It was too noisy for Logan to hear exactly what was said, but the warg seemed to understand well enough. It turned around and charged at its own kind, even though it seemed to be fighting its rider, to no avail. Victor was a good horseman, but he was an excellent warg rider. The Sabretooth swept past Logan on his new steed, much to the surprise of everyone who saw him. There were a few shouts of fear.

"What the hell do you think you're doin'?" demanded Logan. This was just utterly unbelievable, in a bad way.

"I know my wargs, and they know me," came Victor's reply. Logan wasn't sure what that meant, but he was quite certain that he didn't have any time to find out.

The Wolverine leapt into the fray. Victor might have the warg, but he still had the claws. And he wanted in on his brother's little secret; how on earth could Victor make those animals obey him when the only thing Logan could make them do was howl in pain? Speaking of which, he really wanted to silence the one which was howling in his ear. The claws flashed. Blood splashed onto his face as the warg's jugular was cut. Another one down...how many more to go?

Fur was flying everywhere as the animals, some whose riders had been slain, charged at anyone and anything which was alive and not one of them. Each of them was at least half a ton of solid muscle and bone. No man or horse could survive a charge from one of those. Arrows were flying in every direction. Logan could have sworn that at least a quarter of them came from one archer in particular. Legolas, at least, had remained on his horse —all right, so most of Logan's friends had remained on their horses, although Gimli was nowhere to be seen. Even the aged king was managing rather well, despite the fact he looked like he ought to be someone's grandfather, until...

Wargs, it seemed, were intelligent. They recognized leaders when they saw one. Therefore, by logic, it looked as if all the largest and meanest beasts were going for the important people —Logan was a bit peeved that they didn't consider him important enough. Now, it was all very well when said important person was a strong man in his prime like Boromir or Aragorn, but when the important person in question was an old man who ought to be sitting back and watching a good game of golf, then there was going to be trouble, and it was trouble that nobody wanted, maybe with the exception of Saruman.

Logan sprang at the warg just as it leapt for the king. His aim had been a little too high, but that didn't matter because he was able to land directly on top of the warg with claws pointing downwards. The animal bellowed and bucked as six long metal claws pierced its thick hide and entered its flesh. However, it was not mortally wounded in anyway and it showed surprising flexibility as it almost turned its head completely backwards, trying to get a bite of the large man hanging of it, but said large man was having none of it. No, if one clawed brother could ride a warg, then why couldn't the other clawed brother do the same? While he wasn't supposed to hurt his horse, Logan doubted anyone would have reservations about him harming the warg. And if they did, they were too late because he had already harmed it.

Pulling one hand free, Logan reached out and grabbed the ruff of the creature's neck. It looked like a dog and behaved like a very mean one, so the Wolverine assumed that it would have similar anatomy. He was right. The fur was coarse, more like spines than hair, really, but comfort was the least of Logan's worries. He soon gave up trying to control animal. Obviously, he had no skill as a tamer of beasts and would much rather kill them instead. The only animal which had ever taken a liking to him had been Bobby Drake's family's cat. He plunged his claws into the base of the warg's skull. It was a merciful killing blow, not that mercy was on his mind when he delivered it. The animal fell limp beneath him and Logan rolled off it just in time to stab an orc, armour and all.

Théoden had seen everything, including the impressive leap. He gave Logan a nod of thanks, which Logan duly returned. This was soldiers' etiquette, something he was quite familiar with.

All around him, it was a frenzy of killing unlike anything that he had ever seen. It wasn't that this was the largest massacre he'd ever taken part in —most he'd been in had been worse— but it had to number amongst one of the most bizarre. This wouldn't have looked out of place in a film called 'Revenge of the Furballs' or something like that, except the word 'furball' implied something cute, and these wargs were anything but cute.

Shrill whinnies rang out; they were one of the few things which could be heard above the snarls and roars of the wargs. Blade clashed against blade, shield against shield —there was also an instance of shield against head, but that didn't make enough noise to be registered. Horses somersaulted and flipped onto their backs as the wargs bowled them over, crushing men beneath them. The poor animals thrashed wildly. Sometimes, their hooves would catch a warg or an orc, but more often than not, they were, themselves, finished off by a quick bite which crushed their windpipes or broke their necks.

Logan caught sight of Gimli, sensibly not riding a horse. The dwarf, despite his size, was proving to be an extremely effective warg killer. His whirling axes were accurate and deadly. A pile of corpses in various states of dismemberment, warg and orc, lay around him. As the dwarf cut down his enemies, he seemed to be shouting something very systematically. Something like...numbers.

That had Logan confused for a while, but he had no time to be confused as another warg charged at him, slavering jaws wide open, revealing wickedly curved and yellowed fangs. Maybe he ought to make a necklace out of warg teeth. It might not be very tasteful or sophisticated, but it was only right for a hunter to take trophies. Logan was adamant that he was the hunter. After all, it wasn't as if a warg could hunt him successfully.

The fight was short, but brutal. When it was all over, the bodies of men, horses, wargs and orcs alike were strewn all over the blood stained grass. Almost all of the enemy had been killed, with some exceptions. Victor's warg was one of them.

"What do you think he's doing?" Boromir asked Logan as he came up behind him. "The men are suspicious enough already, without him fuelling their imaginations."

"My guess is that he did something warg-related when he was working with Saruman," said Logan.

"That is my guess too, but he would do well not to flaunt the fact," said Boromir. "It will not make him any more popular."

"Victor can never be popular," said Logan with a snort. "But I'll go talk to him, if you want." The Sabretooth was now talking to his steed and it seemed to have calmed down a bit. Most unnatural. However, it started snarling again as Logan approached.

"He's wary of strangers," said Victor, not looking up. "He's always been that way, ever since he was a pup."

"What?" said Logan. That was the only thing he could think of.

"I raised him and trained him," said Victor. "This one's a fighter. Always has been. He was the smallest of his litter, and his mother rejected him. Wargs don't like to have masters, and this one's no different, but he knows when he has to submit. I've always been his master, and he remembers that."

"You are aware that everyone's starin' at you and some of them have loaded crossbows, right?"

"A firing squad couldn't do anything to us, Jimmy. What makes you think that a few arrows can?"

"Well, if you put it that way, who am I to say anythin' when you're beggin' to get shot?"

"If I recall correctly, you were the one who asked the elves to shoot you."

Logan growled and he would have said something else if Legolas had not called out to him. "I'll deal with you later," he said to his brother.

"And I'll be waitin'," said Victor, completely unperturbed.

"You'd better get rid of this thing by then, even if you do love it," warned Logan, "because you are not going to Helm's Deep with it."

"Easy," said Victor. One moment, he was petting the warg, as far as one could 'pet' a warg, and the next moment, he had twisted the animal's head around. There was a sickening crack as the animal's neck was broken. Victor didn't even flinch.

"You just...killed it," remarked Logan, aghast. Surely there should have been some reluctance on Victor's part, even if it was a filthy snarling warg. He'd raised the damn thing, for God's sake!

"Yeah, I did," said Victor. "I can't take him to Helm's Deep, I'm not going to let Saruman have him back, so this is the only way." He let the animal fall to the ground with a thud, showing neither remorse nor regret. "I can always get another one." Great. His brother just proved to the whole world that he was a psychopath, as if Logan needed any more proof.

"Geez, you have a problem," he muttered. He could hear his friends, and they sounded like they were beginning to panic. Maybe they'd realized just how dangerous Victor was. No, wait. They were calling for Aragorn.

Logan forgot all about Victor and his murderous psychopathic tendencies. Had something happened to Aragorn? Was he hurt? Was he...

"Strider!" he called. Damn! He had to be here somewhere. Aragorn couldn't just go and die. He was the first person Logan had met when he had fallen into this strange and sometimes frightening world, and he was the descendant of kings, for God's sake! He caught sight of the others. They had stopped shouting by now and were standing at the edge of a sheer cliff which overlooked a deep ravine. Oh God...

He slowly approached, not wanting to startle them. The only thing he could see as he looked down was a tiny grey ribbon of a river. The smell of burst warg intestines floated up and he could make out a blob which would be said dead warg. Of Aragorn, there was no sign. At first, he wanted to volunteer to go down. He was pretty good at abseiling. However, the rest of the Rohirrim were already getting ready to move on. Still, Logan was not about to just leave Aragorn behind.

Éomer was coming their way. He took one look at their sombre faces and the ravine, and guessed what had happened. "I am sorry," he said. "He was a good man, and I had hoped to draw swords with him, but while the dead rest, the living must go on. We cannot tarry here. The wolves of Isengard will return."

"Then let them come," growled Logan. No, those were not tears in his eyes. It must be hay fever, even if he wasn't allergic to anything. "I wanna kill more of them!"

"I can't just leave him here," said Gimli.

"Nor I," said Boromir.

"None of us can," said Legolas softly. "He was our brother."

"Our captain," added Boromir.

"Damn it, we're not leaving him here and that's the bottom line!" said Logan, cutting straight to the point.

"Would he want you to stay here instead of continuing the struggle against Saruman and the Dark Lord?" asked Éomer. He had a point there, and Logan had to pause to think. The horselord was right. Aragorn would want them to continue the fight so that his sacrifice would not be in vain. "It hurts to lose a brother," continued Éomer, more quietly now. "I lost my cousin and many good friends in this fight, and the only thing I can do for them is to make sure that their legacy lives on, that they did not die for nothing. My cousin believed in something, the very same thing Aragorn believed in, and we, the living, have a responsibility to carry on what they started. Maybe we'll never finish it, but at least we did what we had to and when we meet them in the halls of our fathers, we shall have no cause to be ashamed."

"Wise though they might be, your words do not make this any easier," said Legolas. "And yet, I know you are right."

"Then come," said Éomer. "We owe him that much."

Boromir was the last one to turn away from the ravine, and when he did so, he seemed to do it with even more reluctance than the others. Ever since that surprise orc attack near the waterfall, Logan had a feeling that the Gondorian had come to respect the ranger a lot more, and maybe even love him as a leader. The two men had some sort of unspoken pact which none of the others had ever been privy to, and now, Aragorn had taken that secret to the grave.

* * *

Victor could not be more incensed. A fall? A fall had killed the heir of Isildur, which meant he could not actually bring him back to Mordor and claim his rightful reward. This was utterly ridiculous and infuriating. If he had to die, then his death ought to have benefitted someone directly, other than the Dark Lord himself. He clenched his teeth together and pretended that he was sorry that the man had died, instead of being sorry that he hadn't been able to kill him. Now that his plan had been thwarted, what was he to do? One thing was certain; he was not going back to Mordor empty-handed.

The heir of Isildur was gone, but the son of the Steward of Gondor... well, Boromir of Gondor was a formidable foe. He was not as important as Elendil's heir, of course, but he was better than nothing.

* * *

**A/N: **I hope you enjoyed that.


	32. Realities of War

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything that you recognize. **

**Dreamingkat: **Thank you for your review. It is much appreciated. I'm glad you're enjoying the story and my weird sense of humour, and I hope you continue to enjoy the tale.

_Thank you to all my reviewers. You guys are the best. _

**Chapter 32: Realities of War**

He tried to think about something—anything else other than what had just happened. Unfortunately, there was no one to distract him or anything that could possibly make him forget that his friend was probably lying dead at the bottom of a cliff, or was being washed away by that rushing river to whatever ocean Middle Earth had. Not even the annoying nag was being annoying enough. Everyone else was probably thinking about the same thing. Aragorn had been the one who had led them when Gandalf had fallen in Moria. He was someone they had all looked to, even if he was younger than most of them. Not having him here was so strange that it was almost unbelievable, as if this was just a weird alternative reality, and Logan expected to wake up any moment to discover that it had all just been a figment of his imagination. After all, watching Victor ride wargs had been pretty surreal.

But no, he had to accept reality. He wasn't a man who would fool himself so much that he would begin to believe his fantasies. Whether he liked it or not —and he definitely didn't like it— Aragorn was gone, and that was it. Now, he could avenge him —which he planned on doing once he figured out how to do it— or he could sit in a corner and cry—which he wasn't planning on doing. Well, he'd more or less sorted himself out, but what about the others? He wasn't the most sensitive of people, and he knew he would make a horrible grief counsellor, but some of his friends were taking this so badly that he felt he ought to do something, since Gandalf wasn't here to play the part of the shrink. Legolas and Boromir, in particular, seemed in need of some sort of counselling. Despite Logan and his lack of sensitivity, even he could feel the elf's spirit virtually waning and affecting everyone around him. As for Boromir, the Wolverine knew that look. Soldiers often wore it when they wanted to hide grief. How he was going to counsel a centuries old elf, he didn't know, but he ought to be able to help a man who was only forty or so, right? He was around one hundred and sixty, after all, and he had been through a lot in life. It didn't matter that he didn't remember what exactly he'd been through.

The tired warriors, much depleted in numbers and with many wounded, marched on towards Helm's Deep. It wouldn't have been such a difficult march usually, but in their state, Logan almost wondered if they were going to have to take forty years to reach the promised land. There wasn't any point in trying to drag his friend away for a private counselling when they were all marching in a tight group just in case there was another attack.

At last, they saw the fortress. It looked just like something out of a fantasy tale, except, of course, Middle Earth was a fantasy world with all sorts of strange things like cities in trees and fiery monsters. He really should not be that surprised by a real life functioning medieval fortress, which was the least strange thing of all. The refugees —because that was what they were— were still filing up the causeway. The fortress was built against a sheer rock face. In fact, it seemed to be a part of the cliff itself.

The great gates opened slowly as the king and his company rode up the causeway. The heralds immediately took up the cry. Those guys were nothing if not efficient. Who needed a telecommunication system when there were men like these? The clattering of horses' hooves on stone echoed throughout the fortress as the warriors poured in, and they were greeted by throngs of people. Amidst them were the anxious faces of those who were seeking out their loved ones. Logan's keen hearing meant that he could hear every anguished cry as people discovered that their men were one of the many who had fallen. Others took the news quietly, without even a sob, but their eyes were so empty that they almost made the Wolverine shiver. No, no. It was just chilly in the fortress.

Now that the fighting was over, Logan didn't exactly know what he was supposed to do. Boromir was already busying himself with the planning, presumably to take his mind off Aragorn. The elf and dwarf had taken off to God knew where —not that he believed in the existent of God or just any gods. Victor was still there, of course, and looking like he hadn't had enough blood sports yet, but that was just him. Logan didn't want to deal with his brother right now.

He had to speak with the king. If he was lucky, maybe he'd get hired. They needed men, didn't they?

Logan pushed through the throngs of men to where Théoden was. Wait, should one address a king as 'Milord' or 'Sire' or 'Your Grace' or 'Your Majesty'? Uh...to late to try and make a calculated decision. The king had already noticed him and was waiting for him to speak. He'd just have to pick one and hope that it would be appropriate. "Milord," he said, "I want a commission."

For a moment, the king stared at him with an unreadable expression. Théoden could not have been older than Logan, but at the moment, he was making Logan feel as if he was a spotty teenager applying for his first job. The Wolverine was beginning to wonder if he ought to list his credentials when the king spoke. "You are not a courtier, Master Logan," said Théoden.

"Well, no, sir," said Logan.

"I asked no question, but merely made an observation," said the king. "But I suppose you are the type of man I need at this moment. Now is not the time for sweet words and meaningless flattery." Well, thank God for that, because if it was, then Logan would have been screwed—and unemployed. "How good are you at training men?"

"Undoubtedly good, milord," said Logan. Well, there was some doubt, but he knew he was good. He wouldn't have been training kids otherwise.

"Do you have any experience with infantry?" said the king.

"I was in the infantry for my entire military career," said Logan. Given his current dislike for aircraft and boats, and horses, he doubted that he would have either been a pilot or a naval officer. It would have been even less likely that he would have been a mounted officer of any sort.

"Your entire military carrier?" asked Théoden. "I do not quite understand you."

* * *

The map and the plans of the fortress in front of him were soothing. He could simply focus on those tightly drawn lines and forget about everything that had happened that afternoon—almost. Aragorn had come to his aid when he had needed him, so where had he been when the ranger had fallen? The sense of failure was keen and it cut at him like the sharpest blade...or the bluntest one.

"There is room for three lines of men on the outer walls," Boromir was saying to the lieutenants surrounding the large table upon which all the plans were strewn. In his hand was a piece of charcoal which he was using to mark out important positions on the plans. "We will place archers at the front. The enemy will come within range of their arrows when they reach here—" He drew an arching line, parallel with the outline of the wall.

"But some of them will get close enough to try and scale the walls," said Éomer. "By then, it will be too difficult for the archers to shoot them."

"That is why I am proposing that we place two lines of infantry behind the archers, and when the ladders are placed against the wall, they can move up to deal with them," said the Gondorian. "My main concern is food. We have enough for ten days, but should the enemy attack, the siege will be a lot longer than that."

"Then we should make sure that the siege doesn't last that long," said one of the younger lieutenants jokingly.

"That will not be something we can decide," said Boromir sternly. The man was not taking matters seriously enough.

"I apologize, milord," said the young man, blushing furiously beneath his thin growth of beard. He was probably almost half Boromir's age. The boyishness had not yet gone out of his face, even if he was a burly man. "I was merely trying to lighten up the situation."

"As I was saying, supplies are my main concern," said Boromir, deciding to leave it for now. He couldn't really blame the young officer. "If there is a siege, we must not let them close off our back routes. However, the mountainous terrain means that it will be difficult for horses navigate and therefore we need infantry situated here—" Another mark was made on the largest and most detailed map. "—and here."

"With all due respect, Lord Boromir," said Éomer, "we do not have that many skilled infantry, nor do we have that many men."

"I am well aware of that fact," said Boromir, "and thus, our primary focus should be on recruiting as many men as we possibly can and training them to become foot soldiers. And we need someone to train them." He looked each and every one of his lieutenants in the eye, but none of them dared to hold his gaze for long, with the exception of Éomer, whose expression grew harder every time a man refused the responsibility of training infantry. The Rohirrim commander was becoming desperate, Boromir could tell, and he was, too. These were people who had grown up on horseback. They had probably learned to ride before they had learned to walk. Infantry was not something they were accustomed to.

"Of all the men in Rohan, there is not one man who can train my infantry for me?" They all turned around towards the entrance of the hall, for that was where the speaker stood. King Théoden was here to preside over his war council. Boromir duly moved over to give the king his rightful place at the head of the table. He had been expecting the king to come, just not so late. What surprised him the most was that Logan was part of the king's entourage. The two men exchanged glances, but did not speak, for Théoden was addressing his men. "Then it is fortunate that strangers have come to our aid," he was saying. He placed a hand on Boromir's shoulder, acknowledging his role in Rohan's war against the corrupted White Wizard, before turning to the men behind him. "Master Logan, you may step forward."

There was silence as Logan did as the king commanded. The sound of his heavy booted feet hitting the stone floor echoed in the emptiness, magnified by the high roof. "I charge you, Logan Howl It, with the task of training Rohan's infantry," declared the king. "You will be answerable only to myself, Lord Boromir, and the Third Marshal. Do not fail me." Well, that was...unexpected.

"I damn well won't," said Logan. "You can count on it." At least _some_ things never changed, no matter what other surprises desperate times yielded.

* * *

The war council had disbanded, with each man heading off to do his own allotted task. Logan, however, had been asked to stay behind by both Boromir and Éomer. He knew exactly why. Everyone knew he could fight, but no one knew if he could train others how to fight. He couldn't blame them for doubting him. It wasn't as if he had a job application form with references. To think about it, his former employers probably wouldn't give him good references anyway, apart from Charles Xavier. But that didn't matter. None of them were here to back up Logan's claims or to refute them. Maybe one of them would put him on probation, or perhaps get someone else to watch him. Legolas would be good for the job, if anyone could find him. The elf was rather picky when it came to things like this. Come to think of it, Aragorn was rather particular about fighting techniques too... No, he couldn't think about it. Not right now, when there was a war looming and a battalion of civilians to recruit.

* * *

Death was not alien to him. Indeed, after having dwelt so long beneath the darkened eaves of Mirkwood, death had become quite familiar to Legolas. He knew all of its faces. Yet, he could never become quite accustomed to death's presence, especially not when it was so close. The only other time he had felt this way was when his mother had been taken by death. He had been only a child then, even if that memory was still vivid and clear in his mind. One did not forget such things. Now he had another one to put alongside it.

"Lad?" Gimli's presence was a comfort. The dwarf's rich voice, so full of concern, helped to stave off the chill which was curling around his heart and seeping into his bones. The heir of Isildur had fallen. What hope was there now? He turned to his friend.

"I do not know how I will find the strength to go on, and yet I know I must," he said.

"I don't know either, but we will find a way together," said Gimli. "He would have wanted us to remain strong, and if he was here right now, he would probably scold us for despairing, although I cannot help it. It feels so hopeless."

"And perhaps it always was hopeless, but Aragorn made certain it did not seem that way," said the elf. He turned his gaze back towards the vast plains and craggy hills which they had passed on their way to Helm's Deep. In the distance, he could see that thin winding river, slithering over the plains like a snake on its way to the sea. He could even see the rift where Aragorn had fallen, even if it was but a mere line of darkness to his eyes right now.

The sky was growing dark as the two friends stood there at the top of the battlements. Neither of them spoke much, for they were too embroiled in their own thoughts and doubts about the future. That was until the elf's keen eyes spotted a great host marching towards Helm's Deep from Isengard, and a lone horseman riding ahead of them with great haste. Since the orcs did not use horses, Legolas could only assume that the horseman was a friend of Rohan. He was definitely not one of the Nine, for he lacked those dark billowing robes. As the man drew closer, Legolas' suspicion turned into indescribable delight.

"Gimli, friend," he said. "I think we may have a cause for hope after all."

"Can you stop being so bloody cryptic and tell me what's made you so happy?" said the dwarf.

"You must be very agitated that you do not see what I see, for you are beginning to sound like our dear friend the Wolverine," said Legolas. "Very well, I shall not torment you any longer. Hope returns."

"And how is that supposed to make any more sense to me than what you said before?" said Gimli.

* * *

Logan heard the shouts long before he was even at the gates. The entire keep ought to know by now. Apparently, it took more than just a long fall from a sheer cliff to kill the scruffy ranger. He had left his group of stunned new recruits behind as he had charged off to see his returned friend. This was nothing short of a miracle, as Aragorn wasn't a mutant, and therefore he had no powers which would actually enable him to survive from such a fall. That ranger had quite some luck.

All in all, this trip was taking too long. More often than not, Logan had to slow to a walk, wading through the throngs of people inside the fortress. While it might've looked intimidating from the outside, in actual fact, there wasn't very much space inside. He gave up. What was the point of having super powers when he couldn't utilize them? The gate was just below him, and he could see Aragorn, surrounded by crowds of people who were just as stunned to see him as Logan was. He vaulted over the edge of the battlements. People scattered as they saw something hurtling down from above. Some, believing it to be an enemy projectile or something like that, began to scream.

Stone cracked beneath him as he landed on his feet. It wasn't the highest jump he'd ever made, but nevertheless, to people who have never seen him in action, it was impressive, and more than just a little intimidating.

"And I thought I made a grand entrance," said Aragorn as a way of greeting the Wolverine.

Apart from smelling like a wet dishrag which had been left in a corner for a couple of days, the ranger seemed to be fine. "Don't do that again," said the Logan, glaring at him. "If you try it once more, I'll kill you myself." He hesitated for a moment. It seemed too emotional, but appropriate for this situation. His friend had returned from the dead more or less. Certainly that ought to warrant for unusual behaviour. Logan pulled the ranger into a rough embrace —a soldier's embrace, partly to assure himself that this wasn't a dream, and partly because he was just so glad to see him.

"I will argue the paradoxical nature of that threat later," said the ranger as he was released from the brief and awkward embrace. He clapped the Wolverine on the shoulder. By that time, the rest of their company had arrived, minus Legolas and Victor. Logan didn't actually expect to see Victor, since the Sabretooth probably didn't give a damn, but the absence of Legolas surprised him. The elf had taken this the worst out of all of them.

Gimli charged into Aragorn and immediately launched into a lecture about how the ranger should not be so reckless in the future. It made Logan wonder if the dwarf had any children, since he sounded just like a parent. At least, that was what Logan thought parents ought to sound like. He hadn't exactly interacted with very many. Elrond didn't count because all his children were so old that he probably hadn't needed to scold them like that for a very long time.

Boromir stepped forward, and without a word, the two men gripped hands. Neither of them seemed to know what to say, and the Gondorian looked awkward at the very least. "I am glad to see that you are alive," he said at last.

"As am I," said Aragorn. "We need to talk. Where is the king?"

­

* * *

Théoden, as it turned out, already knew about the attacking force from Isengard. That was the reason why Legolas had not been present to welcome Aragorn. The elf had been busy warning the king. What he had not been able to provide were the details.

"Ten thousand?" said Théoden. "Lord Aragorn, are you quite certain."

"Not entirely," said the ranger. "There could be more." Logan wasn't sure, but this latest brush with death seemed to have left the ranger with a very strange sense of humour. Or Aragorn could just be tired. People said strange things when they were tired.

"If you don't mind me askin'," said Logan, "how many do we have?"

"Five thousand, at the very most," said Éomer. "This is coming too soon. I had thought we would have more time. Our men from Snowbourn cannot possibly reach us in time."

"Then we'll just have to make sure that one of us is worth ten of them, then," said Logan. "Or am I being overly optimistic?"

* * *

Victor had known that they would come. Already, Saruman's forces were falling behind schedule. The wizard had hoped to take Rohan sooner. He had told the Sabretooth himself. There was no hope for these peasants and their king. How could they hold out against the far superior forces of Isengard, even if they did have their little fortress to protect them? The Sabretooth estimated that they would be able to keep the orcs at bay for three days at the very most. Supplies weren't exactly high, and there were a lot of extra mouths to feed. Unneeded mouths, in Victor's opinion. Why keep those who could not fight? Children, he could understand, but the old and the sick ought to go. They couldn't contribute anything beneficial to the gene pool, and as far as he was concerned, they were wasting food and air.

Of course, no one would consent to throwing them out. The Rohirrim weren't at all practical, unlike some people he had worked for in the past. William Stryker might have been a twisted piece of work, but there was no denying that he had been efficient. Men like him succeeded. Sentimental people like Jimmy and his friends did not. Still, Victor had no other choice. There was no one he hated more than those who tried to cage him. Everyone else who had attempted it was dead. Now it was Saruman's turn to learn that the Sabretooth suffered no master except the one he freely chose.

He heard someone hollering his name. Logan again. That Wolverine seemed to suspect him, and rightly so, for Victor was technically not on his side. His little brother was checking in on him again to make sure that he was not putting his plans into action. Luckily enough, for the both of them, Victor wasn't going to act. Yet. It was too early. The Heir of Isildur and the son of the Gondorian Steward were both needed if Victor wanted to get Saruman back, and Victor did want it.

"Whaddya want?" he hollered back. Logan wasn't the only one with the loud voice.

"We need all the manpower we can get, and I figured you'd be useful!" came the reply. "Aren't you glad I remembered?"

* * *

Unfortunately, in Rohan, there seemed to be no such thing as classified information. Within hours, the entire civilian population in Helm's Deep knew that they were being attacked by a vastly superior army, and they weren't reacting very well to the news. Logan supposed that they had to find out sooner or later. It was the only way to justify forced recruitment, which meant that his infantry battalion was now composed of a lot of young boys who were more adept at holding hoes than swords. There weren't enough child-sized weapons either.

His suggestion of letting willing adult women fight, instead of pre-pubescent boys, had been rejected by almost everyone, strangely enough, although the Lady Éowyn seemed to have appreciated his attempt to speed up female emancipation, and had even put in a few words of her own. Her brother and uncle, however, had been less than pleased about it. Logan had received quite a few withering glares from Éomer. Well, it was understandable that the guy didn't want his baby sister fighting, but this was a state of emergency. They could definitely use a woman like her on the field—or the wall. Not in _that_ sense, of course. Not even someone as invincible as the Wolverine would risk the wrath of her very protective male relatives. And besides, Éowyn was quite capable of defending herself.

However, as it was, this was a male-dominated society and females were thus treated as if they were fragile glass ornaments which had to be locked up in a glass cabinet ­—in this case, a sparkly cave— while the big tough men and ten-year old boys went out to fight. That made complete sense. Not really, but who was he to judge? Besides, he wasn't really that keen on letting women fight either. It was just that desperate times called for desperate measures. He was also _not_ going to remember all the times when he had almost been beaten by a woman. Did female mutants with blue skin who could change shape actually count as women? What about ones with inhuman strength, robotic minds and adamantium skeletons?

Hmmm...he didn't seem to have the time to wonder about that right now. Due to the fact that there was a lack of personnel, he had even recruited Victor, with permission from Théoden, to be his assistant drill sergeant. There were something akin to five hundred young boys —and old men— waiting for him to assure them that everything was going to be fine and that Rohan was going to win. Well, the boys were waiting for reassurances. Most of the old men looked as if they had seen more than enough to know that the outcome of this battle was not likely to be good.

"They remind me of you, Jimmy," said Victor. Logan glared at him. What had possessed him? Victor? Come on! _Anyone_ would have made a better assistant! Why couldn't he have cajoled and begged Gimli and Legolas, or just one of them, to help him instead? Even if the elf was condescending at times, he was miles better than Victor.

"Can you shut up?" he hissed. "You're not helping to boost my prestige here, and it's dubious enough as it is."

"As your brother, it is my job to make sure that your ego does not become overinflated," the Sabretooth informed him with a smug grin. Logan elbowed his brother, who nimbly dodged, but seemed to take the "subtle" hint. At least he just smirked and didn't provide any more unwanted and extremely unflattering comments. Now Logan just had to salvage what was left of his prestige and give a nice encouraging speech which would be suitable for children. Ah, actually, scrap the kiddie friendly part. These kids were going to become killers in a couple of hours. There was no point in keeping down the rating. He might as well prepare them for what was to come. In the long term, he would be doing them a favour. As a matter of fact, he never understood the logic of withholding unpleasant information from children anyway. After all, they were going to find out sooner or later, either through someone else or through experience. Keeping them ignorant only meant that they became disadvantaged. He cleared his throat. Now, to begin...

"Well, lads," he said. What next? Reverse psychology didn't look as if it was going to work this time. These weren't soldiers who were eager for a fight. "We're gonna send them on a one way road trip to Hell!" There was no point in giving a long and elaborate speech. He just wanted to get the testosterone and adrenaline going.

"Where's that?" asked one of the boys. Oh great. He was going to have to explain theology.

"It might have gone down better if you had said 'The Void'," whispered Victor into his ear.

* * *

Night had fallen. There was not a single star in sight. If Logan had been a superstitious man, he would have said that it was a bad omen, but as it was, he was a man of scientific reasoning, and therefore, the only thing that storm clouds signified on a night like this was rain. "Milord, are things really going to be fine?" asked one of the boys behind him. The poor little tyke just reached Logan's hip, and his helmet was far too large for him. Actually, he was lucky he had a helmet at all.

At the very end, Logan had decided to go for the traditional type of speech and assured the boys —and the old men— that everything was going to be fine and that they could all go home soon. Probably not the wisest thing to do, but when it came to actually doing it, Logan found out he didn't have the heart to show these youngsters how cruel the world really was. At any rate, the king, and perhaps Boromir and Aragorn, was probably going to give speeches about how this was Middle Earth's version of the Battle of Stalingrad.

He was standing there with his boys and trying to help them not to panic. 'Shrink' had never been part of his job description and he was floundering a bit. He had his sword strapped to his back —people seemed to like him more when he looked the part of the serious traditional warrior, meaning the type with swords and not claws. He wasn't actually intending on using the weapon. While it had been nice of Galadriel to give it to him, his claws were much more convenient.

Lightning flashed once, followed by the low growl of thunder. "Four seconds," he said to his boys. They might as well learn some science while they were learning to be soldiers. It wasn't as if there was much they could do except wait and practise waving swords around, not that it was doing much good. At any rate, weren't they in charge of throwing rocks? The order had come from above only moments ago. Logan's 'infantry' battalion was not ready for proper combat, and therefore Boromir had assigned them to 'bombardment'. Lovely name for something so sleep-inducing as rock throwing. Logan wasn't all that fond of ball sports. Still, there were teenagers in his battalion, and rowdy teenagers liked to throw rocks off bridges when drunk, so there was no reason why Rohirrim teenagers wouldn't enjoy throwing rocks off a castle wall.

A horn sounded, startling everyone. Arrows were put to strings and Logan's claws came out. Horns could only mean one thing. The army was here. The funny thing was that the Wolverine had heard, seen and smelled nothing. If there was one thing he knew about orcs, then it was the fact that they reeked.

"Open the gates!" someone called.

"Are you bloody crazy?" said Logan before anyone else could reply ­—and that included the king. "We're in the middle of a war!"

"Master Logan, if we were orcs, we would have brought a battering ram!" came the reply from outside.

"How'd you know it was me?"

"With a response like that, it had to be you."

"He has a point," said Victor.

"It is a crazy idea to open gates for total strangers in the middle of a war!" said Logan. "It's logic!"

"They are not total strangers," said Boromir as Logan's protests were ignored and the gates were opened. "They are reinforcements sent by the elves. If I am not mistaken, the one who spoke was Haldir of Lothlorien. I thought you would recognize the voice."

"It wasn't as if I spoke to him a lot," muttered Logan. Ah, this was embarrassing. Haldir would probably tell Sidhien about all this once he returned to Lothlorien. The elves, all arrayed in their silver armour and marching perfectly in time, was a wondrous sight to behold. In fact, they were so wondrous that Logan wondered if they were mechanical. Surely nothing in the world could have such a good sense of rhythm.

Boromir was right. The leader was Haldir and he looked pleased. Their eyes met for a moment, and the Lothlorien elf gave a subtle, almost undetectable, nod of acknowledgement. Logan didn't know why, but he saluted him. Maybe it was the military atmosphere. He heard footsteps behind him. Irregular footsteps. It seemed that Legolas and Aragorn had finally deigned to appear, probably triggered by the sudden appearance of most unexpected reinforcements. And where was Gimli? It was unusual that he wasn't with those two. He and Legolas had become rather inseparable, which was also strange since the two had started off hating each other.

"Armour problems," murmured the ranger, as if he knew exactly what Logan was thinking.

"I do not understand," Théoden was saying. This was the first time that Logan had seen a completely bewildered monarch —not entirely unlike a completely bewildered president, actually.

"Lord Elrond of Rivendell and Lady Galadriel told me to tell you that we were allies long ago, men and elves," said Haldir. "The time has come for us to stand together as comrades once more."

"You are definitely very welcome, milord," said Éomer when his uncle failed to find the appropriate words to respond with. "Indeed, it is time for all of Middle Earth to stand together in the face of this growing darkness. It seems that with your arrival, all of Middle Earth's free peoples have gathered here in this keep, and that is a thought which cheers my spirit."

"And if they were more bureaucratic, they could probably establish the new UN," murmured Logan to no one in particular. "Collective security and all that, y'know?"

"Not particularly," whispered Legolas as he brushed past Logan to greet his fellow elves. The prince was his old sarcastic and cheerful self again. Not even the prospect of fighting a losing battle in bad weather could dampen his spirits. Maybe he was high on something.

Positions were quickly rearranged, with the newcomers now becoming the contingent of archers stationed directly above the gate. Coincidentally, they were quite close to Logan's contingent. That was how the Wolverine came face to face with the brother of the object of his affections. Berenon nodded stiffly at Logan, and Logan nodded back. It was awkward, as the elf obviously hadn't forgiven him for calling his little sister 'honey'.

"How is Sidhien?" asked the Wolverine, trying to seem casual and yet thirsting for any news he could get.

"She is well," said Berenon. "Our father sent her and our mother to Imladris to stay with his sister and her husband. They will be safer there."

"But Lady Galadriel's in Lothlorien," said Logan. "She would ensure that everything was safe, wouldn't she?"

"There have been raids on the Golden Wood," said Berenon. "It is better for our womenfolk to be in the Last Homely House, where there are no raids."

"The Rivendell Refugee Camp," said Logan. "I mean, no offence, but that's just what it looks like from where I'm standing."

The light of the orcs' torches began appearing within his line of sight. At first, it was no more than a thin glowing yellow line, and then it became a wave, no, a swarm, marching ever closer to the walls of Helm's Deep. From afar, it looked like some volcano had erupted. Aragorn was right about it being a huge and intimidating force. His boys were never going to believe that they would survive this. Logan didn't believe it either.

Victor was right. They were doomed. However, the Rohirrim weren't going down without a fight and neither was the Wolverine.

* * *

**A/N: **Special thanks to **Costin **for being my war advisor. Any mistakes are my own.


	33. So Come and Get It!

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything you recognize.

**Chapter 33: So Come and Get It! **

Rain started falling in large cold drops, ringing quietly when it hit armour. Soon, he had water running down his face and almost blinding him and preventing him from seeing very far. No matter. Logan doubted that he would need to see anything in the distance once the battle began and he actually needed to see something. He smelled the reek of their wet bodies first. Soon, the marching of the orcs' iron-shod feet, like the steady beat of war drums, could be heard. The ground beneath them shook with each step their enemy took towards Helm's Deep and confrontation.

Logan sniffed. There was something else there too; something a lot more worrying than just the fact that there were ten thousand large armoured orcs marching towards them, give or take. He could smell fear. In fact, it was so strong that it almost covered the scent of the orcs, seeing as the source of it was so close to him. He glanced back at his boys. They didn't seem to know that they were being observed, for they were so nervous that the only thing they could focus on was the firelight in the distance. Some of them clutched their oversized weapons tightly, as if that would save them. Others were shaking, from both cold and fear. Kids weren't stupid, and despite Logan's speech, they knew that everything was _not_ going to be fine.

"Hey," said Logan. In other parts of the fortress, Aragorn, Boromir, Éomer and King Théoden were giving their last speeches to their troops. The one closest to them was Aragorn, but considering his inspirational speech was in some strange language —probably elvish—, it was completely wasted on Logan and his boys. "Listen, kids," began the Wolverine. "I know you're scared shitless, and I don't blame you, but guess what? You're men now. Your mothers and your sisters and your cousins and whoever else you can think of are relying on you to defend them, because there is no one else to do it. _You_ are Rohan's last defence—" He sincerely hoped that it wasn't true. "—and _you_ are going to save your country. If you fail, we're all gonna die. You have no other choice but to march forward and not look back. Not literally of course, because there is a sheer drop just in front of us and that would be potentially dangerous."

Beside him, the uninterested Victor looked up from sharpening his claws on stone. The surprise on his face was enough to warm Logan's heart. Hah! It had to be working if Victor was not smirking.

"If you fight well, you still have a chance for livin'. If you don't, we'll all be orc food. You got me?" There. How was that for a little bit of blunt honesty? He stared at them, hard and long. They stared back at him blankly. Oh geez. How could they fight if they were shaking like this? "You got me?" He repeated his question more loudly this time. In fact, a lot more loudly. So loudly that some of Aragorn's men —and elves— turned to see what was going on.

It seemed to take a while for them to absorb what Logan said, but at long last, understanding dawned. "I got it, milord," said one of the braver ones. "I'm not going to let them touch my little sister."

"Good," said Logan. The orcs had stopped a few yards from the walls of the fortress. Their menacing growls, and their heavy breathing reached Logan's ears. In fact, he was pretty sure everyone could hear that concerted growling. That was just not going to do. "Now, let's show them what Rohirrim men are made of, shall we?" He brandished his claws and, turning his face to the sky, let out a resounding roar of his own.

* * *

Boromir had learned not to expect anything apart from surprises from Logan. However, most of those surprises were usually bad, so it surprised him that he was rather glad for the Wolverine's attention-grabbing move this time. Of course, Logan hadn't been aiming to get attention. It was probably just his natural reaction to the snarls and growls of the orcs.

Another roar joined in. Victor. How could anyone think that the Sabretooth was going to be outdone? The two clawed brothers —as everyone had come to know them as— were working together surprisingly well, considering their antagonism towards one another. When it came down to it, brotherly bonds of blood mattered, no matter what Logan might say.

Boromir raised his sword and turned to his own troops. "For the free peoples of Middle Earth!" he cried. If Logan could cause a scene and boost morale in such an overt manner, then so could he. The Gondorian put his horn to his lips and let out a long blast. His men cheered. The sudden wave of aggression and hope swept through all the assembled troops. Soon, everyone in Helm's Deep was joining in the chorus of battle cries. Some men struck their shields with their weapons, creating a steady beat in the background. All the horns were sounding in a united challenge.

Unfortunately, the orcs were quite ready to answer said challenge. They, too, began beating on their shields and stomping their feet. Now they definitely knew who had more numbers. And weapons.

* * *

Both sides were poised to move, but neither was willing to be the first to strike. It seemed that these orcs weren't entirely mindless after all. That would be a problem. Logan preferred his enemies to be dumb and vicious. Smart and vicious made them much more dangerous and the chances for humiliating episodes were much higher.

They were all as tense as the drawn bow of the archers. Just when no one knew what to do, one of the bowmen, presumably a human one rather than an elf, decided that he was under too much strain, physically and mentally. He let his arrow fly before anyone gave any signals. Logan heard the faint whistle as it cut through the air. No one expected it to hit, for the orcs were so far away, but moments later, a sharp 'whack' sounded as the projectile struck something, followed by a gurgle and a wet thump.

"What happened?" whispered one of the boys. Logan quickly identified him as the only one of the kids who actually spoke to him directly. The rest were scared to death of him and Victor.

"Shh," said Logan. "I'm listenin'." The united and furious roar of the orcs told him moments later that he really oughtn't have listened so hard. A deaf man would have heard that.

They charged altogether at once. The commanders got over the shock quickly enough. Aragorn gave some command in elvish, and arrows rained down on the orcs, felling many, but they just kept on coming without even faltering. Some of them even had the sense to return fire.

"So it begins," said Victor, almost gleefully. He really had something wrong with his head, and Logan didn't want to know the details of it. An arrow which was coming straight at his face shattered when he blocked it with his claws.

"Wait!" he shouted to the boys, some of whom were almost about to throw their rocks down the wall. "Don't you dare throw them down until I say so or you'll be sorry!" The poor kids couldn't seem to decide who they were more afraid of; Logan or the orcs. However, they were scared enough of the Wolverine to obey immediately, which was all he cared about at the moment, really.

Sturdy ladders were raised with orcs covered in white paint sitting on the very top. And those were hugest orcs Logan had ever seen. That was not a good sign. One such ladder was about to be propped up right in front of Logan's battalion of infantry. That was an offence which could not be overlooked. No one messed with the Wolverine and his boys and got away with it. No one, not even if you were a corrupted White Wizard with a huge army of monsters. Logan pushed his way through the ranks and got there in time to greet the creature. The ladder hadn't even touched the wall before it leapt off the top with a ferocious growl, baring darkened fangs; three hundred pounds of muscle and metal, at the very least. Not that its size intimidated the Wolverine, who was by no means small. Logan blocked the sword swipe coming in on his left with his arm. The metal cut through flesh, but it was stopped by the layer of metal covering his bones. Before the orc had any time to be surprised, he had plunged his claws into the creature's ribcage. Stupid thing hadn't even bothered to wear a chest plate. Paint made for very poor armour.

Having been a teacher and a killer for so long, Logan's rudimentary knowledge of anatomy was more than adequate. He knew exactly where the human heart was situated, and it seemed that orcs weren't so different from human beings after all, anatomically speaking. It didn't die immediately like a human would have, although Logan hardly cared. He flung the creature off the wall. The broken body flew in a lazy arc to land on the ground below. His wounded arm was already almost fully healed.

There was a crunch, but it was not from Logan's victim. Victor had broken an orc's spine over his knee as if it had been nothing but a brittle old bone. "Still the topdog!" he roared as he threw it over the wall. A volley of arrows flew at them. The boys were really beginning to panic.

"Stay right there!" roared Logan. "I'll brain anyone who turns back!" They stayed. "Rocks, now!" The black creatures were swarming up the ladder like termites. At this rate, they were going to be all over the fortress in an hour. His eyes met Victor's. The two brothers nodded in agreement. Well, they could set aside their sibling rivalry —and other problems— for this one night. This was going to be just like the old times Logan had seen in his dreams and in Galadriel's birdbath. The two mutants turned their attentions to the ladders. Logan calculated that just a little push would send the ladder teetering backwards, because it had been propped up at almost a right angle to the ground. He had no physics to back that up, only experience, but that was probably enough. If it didn't work, he would think of something else. He grabbed the ladder and then heaved with all the inhuman strength he had in him. For a moment, the ladder stood upright on its own, and then it crashed back down against the wall of the fortress. The sheer number of orcs clinging to the lower part of the ladder had made sure that it didn't fall.

Ah well. That hadn't worked. It was time for a change of plan. 'Killing as many of them as possible' seemed to be a good one. It was simple, and didn't take much planning. In fact, it didn't even sound like a proper plan, but Logan wasn't in a position to care right now. Victor could use his tricks; the Wolverine was going to use his claws.

Above the din, Gimli could be heard shouting numbers with much gusto. So they were still at it? He might as well join in, seeing as he was doing the killing anyway. It might even lighten the boys' spirits if they realized that the adults had it well under control —they didn't, but that was beside the point. "Hey, pussy cat!" he shouted to Victor. That got his attention. The Sabretooth turned around and snarled, baring those unnaturally long canines. "You wanna play?" At first, Victor looked confused, but he got the idea soon enough. Gimli was very loud in his counting.

"You're on!" he called, calmly wringing an orc's neck. There was violence, and then there was Victor's violence.

The men of Rohan held out, despite their lack of numbers. Their desperation gave them strength and made them bold. Before his very eyes, Logan saw his boys become men. They knew they were not fully-fledged warriors, but some of them had pulled out their oversized weapons and were taking on their enemies in groups. They weren't kids anymore, but rather, young men who were growing up much too quickly. They saw their friends fall, watched their blood mingle with that of the enemy, sometimes held them as life left them. They soon realized that there was no time for emotion, for every second could mean the difference between the survival or destruction of their beloved nation. Their pale faces, which had been so frightened at first, were now hardened and streaked with blood, both their own and that of their enemies.

Orcs kept on coming. Their black shiny wet bodies seethed like a furious wave against the walls of the fortress. Killing them had become rather methodical. Logan hardly wasted any more than two swipes on any of them. There were too many of them to kill and simply not enough time. For every one he dealt with, two more seemed to replace it, while the Rohirrim were becoming fewer and fewer. Courage was all very well, but the lacked the skill. Commanders were shouting instructions, but they were becoming less often as they, too, became engaged in battle.

A loud hollow boom sounded just below them. "What was that?" demanded Logan.

"Battering ram!" replied Victor. "Rocks, now!" He didn't seem to care about the hierarchy of command at all. Then again, neither did the boys. They were even more afraid of Victor than of Logan or the orcs. Rocks rained down on the orcs and the battering ram below them. Logan risked wasting some time to peer down. The battering ram was just a log. Honestly, this was like a dark twisted fairy tale.

"Geez, they really are primitive, aren't they?" he said. "What happened to a few sticks of dynamite?" Someone really ought to have told him to be careful of what he wished for, because a few moments later, an explosion rocked the fortress. Logan was thrown backwards by the force and crushed the unfortunate orc he landed on. The smell of sulphur assailed his nostrils. There was his dynamite.

He scrambled to his feet even as rocks and rubble fell around him. Everything was in total chaos. Orcs swarmed around the breach in the wall like flies to a wound. They splashed through the deep puddle which hadn't been there before, pouring into the fortress. The dam had been broken and there was no stopping the flood. Then again, Logan had never been very good at keeping to the rules. That adamantium skeleton had to count for something. He pushed past wounded men, gathering speed and momentum as he ran. Then he launched himself into the air with a roar, catching the attention of the orcs who looked up. He fell on them, claws at the ready. What he had not expected was being blinded by water as he and his enemies all fell into a heap in the puddle—more like a very shallow pond, really. The splashing didn't help matters, as it drowned out the other noises which might have helped him know what the orcs were doing exactly. No pun intended.

What the splashing could not drown out was the blood-chilling battle cry of the only dwarf in Helm's Deep. Gimli might be his race's single representative on this mission, but he seemed to be making damn sure that the dwarves made an impression on everyone he ever encountered. The Wolverine blinked to clear his eyes, just in time to see the dwarf take a flying leap. Well, not so much 'flying', as his friend was weighed down by a lot of armour, and with those short thick legs, he simply wasn't built for jumping. However, that suited Gimli fine, for he didn't want to go up anyway. He landed directly on an orc's head, and his axe had already cleaved another of those dark creatures from head to sternum.

"It's about time!" shouted Logan as he plunged his claws into an orc's stomach. Dark blood, stomach acid and foul-smelling digestive enzymes spurted onto his hand as he yanked his claws out.

"I was otherwise preoccupied, lad!" said the dwarf. "And not everyone has legs as long as yours. Oh...I will never hear the end of that." By then, he was not referring to Logan's legs anymore, but rather, Legolas' arrival. Was the elf surfing down the steps? Yeah, Logan could imagine that elf riding a wave just as effortlessly as he did everything else. Did nothing ever stump him? Perfection got annoying pretty soon. Well, stuff that. The Wolverine was not to be outdone. Was that Aragorn? And Victor? The competition just became a whole lot steeper.

"Jimmy!" shouted Victor as he threw an orc at Logan. "Let's see how well you bat!" The creature was no match for the Sabretooth's superior strength. If Victor put his mind to it, he could probably punch through a brick wall. The orc found itself impaled on Logan's claws.

More men, and elves, had flooded to the breach in the wall to attempt to hold back the orcs. Arrows from both sides flew over head and pelted down, just like the rain. They clattered on shields and armour. At times, a cry of pain —or of extreme annoyance— could be heard as someone got hit. Logan yanked an arrow out of his shoulder, not caring if he ripped through muscle or not. It would heal sooner or later; most likely sooner. Still, there simply weren't enough men to stop the orcs from coming in. They needed an engineer who could actually block up the hole using the materials they had at hand. There was plenty of rubble, but without proper instructions, they would never be able to make anything out of it.

The problem was, who were they going to ask? Logan crushed an orc's windpipe beneath his boot, all the while looking around for said engineer. Logically, he ought to look to the leaders, in this case, Aragorn and Boromir, the only two who were within earshot, but if he remembered correctly, Aragorn was better at fixing people and Boromir wasn't all that keen on the physics of construction. Legolas? Forget it. That elf was all about trees and the philosophy of life.

"Master Dwarf!" Boromir called over the din of battle. That man had a strong voice. It was yet another reason why he was a natural leader. If a man wanted to lead other men, he had to be heard. "Your people are renowned for their skill with stones. Can you not help us?"

"I might be good with stones, lad, but I can't make something out of nothing!" replied the dwarf. The head of his axe struck the orc he was fighting squarely. Logan winced when he realized where exactly the unfortunate creature had been hit. Pain might be something he was used to, but he wasn't the sadistic type who enjoyed it, and being hit _there_ would make anyone cringe.

"Can you not think of _anything_?" said Legolas. His quiver was almost empty and he had pulled out his long white knives. To Logan's eyes, they were nothing but a silver blur. He had no time to admire the elf's speed as he had to bend over backwards to avoid having his throat cut. It never stayed cut for long enough to kill him, but it wasn't pleasant he would prefer not to have it happen to him if he could help it.

Legolas' question —which had sounded more like a challenge than anything else— seemed to have done the trick. Gimli was barking out orders to the Rohirrim, who hurried to obey him. Warriors protected those carrying rocks and stones to the opening in the wall. It seemed like a futile effort at first. The irregular pieces of rubble wouldn't stay in place, and the orcs were teeming outside; all that pushing and jostling was not conducive to construction. The Wolverine knew next to nothing about masonry, and trying to help would have been like an ant trying to move a mountain; completely ineffectual, if not downright obstructive. Instead, he concentrated on what he was good at, namely killing orcs. His clothes were drenched in both blood and water and the leather jacket, while it was of emotional significance to him now, was starting to chafe against his skin.

Bit by bit, the hole was being stopped up by larger bits of rubble, while the pebbles were used for filling in the gaps between the larger rocks to make them more stable. However, it wasn't fast enough. Panicked shouts from above could only mean one thing. The infantry lines and the archers had failed to keep the enemy at bay and they had now gained footing at the top of the wall.

"Go!" shouted Gimli. "I have everything under control here!" Logan didn't need to be told twice. He raced back up the stairs. Anything which stood in his way —mostly orcs— were ruthlessly shoved aside as he rushed back to his boys. He was supposed to be looking after them, and Logan took such responsibilities very seriously. If he didn't, Xavier wouldn't have let him teach.

Logan cut his way through the throngs of orcs to get to them. The seething sea of glistening bodies pushed him this way and that way. The Wolverine didn't take well to being shoved around like a rag doll. He was anything but. Many orcs, armoured or not, met their deaths at the ends of the mutant's now infamous claws. Men, and the few elves who were scattered all over the fortress, were glad to see him. Instinctively, they rallied around him. With their official commanders so far away, most of them too busy dealing with other breaches in the defences, they were glad for any presence of authority. And if establishing order was not Logan's talent, then it was just too tough. He was here, and that made it his responsibility.

Bands of men had formed small defensive formations of their own. Some of these were more successful than others, but all these inexperienced soldiers lacked the one thing which was central to all successful armies; cohesion. Their leaders were down by the hole in the wall, trying to limit the damage while their men on top of the wall were quickly losing what advantages they had had. This simply would not do. Logan might not have been well-trained in the art of war, but he knew the basics.

"Reform the line!" he roared. "Shields and spears at the front! I want those rocks fallin'! You, to the ladders! Has anyone got any boiling oil, tar, petroleum...anything burnable? Boiling water?!" That was what they used in the Hollywood movies. It occurred to him that they were in a very bad way if they were relying on Hollywood for their battle tactics, but it was the best Logan could come up with right now. If they had been a little more advanced, then maybe he could have said some very professional sounding things concerning guns and explosives. However, they didn't even have so much as a single pot of boiling water to throw down on their enemies. The Rohirrim were completely inexperienced when it came to sieges, and Boromir had not had the time to prepare them properly. "Never mind! Just throw those rocks! Don't you dare take a single step backwards! If you do, I'll throw you down the wall myself!" Terror tactics had always worked. The others might not approve, but these were desperate times, and Logan was willing to use any means necessary to win the fight.

The few remaining elven archers were firing shot after shot. The whistling of their arrows became one constant high-pitched hum in the background. The orcs, however, were having none of it. They had the better machines, and there were a lot of them. Something past Logan, cutting his arm to the bone, or rather, the adamantium. That as the largest arrow he had ever seen. In fact, was it still an arrow when it was as long as a man was tall? Never mind. Terms did not matter. The fact was that the harpoon-like thing had latched onto the wall, and it had a rope attached to it; the orcs were using a pulley system to pull their ladders up. Ladders which already had orcs clinging to every rung. With one swipe, Logan sliced through the harpoon with his claws and the ladder crashed back to the ground, crushing at least thirty orcs beneath it. Pretty darn good. However, there was only one of him and unlike some mutants, he couldn't be in several places at the same time. Other ladders were being hoisted up. Orcs swarmed onto the wall like a plague of termites, bringing down anything in their path.

"Thirty-nine!" growled the Wolverine as he pulled his claws out of a dead orc's body. Or was it forty? Damn it, he'd lost count.

"I do not understand why you are counting," said a familiar voice. Only, this was the last voice Logan had expected to hear. Imagine meeting one's potential girlfriend's overprotective older brother on the battlefield. It definitely changed Logan's perception of Berenon. Not only was he uptight, but he was also very vicious. His movements were less refined than Legolas', probably because he was considerably younger and didn't have the nation's best teachers at his disposal, but he was lethal. Unlike the prince, the Lothlorien elf wielded a curved sword —more like a sabre.

"It's just to take my mind off the fact that we're all in deep shit!" said Logan.

"Your language continues to astound me," said the elf. Was this a twisted form of fraternal bonding? Berenon didn't sound all that hostile towards him anymore, and the two of them were actually fighting back to back. It didn't work as well as when he fought back to back with Victor, but Sidhien's brother wasn't that bad either. Besides, while he cooperated well with Victor, he didn't exactly like the Sabretooth.

"What? You never think of swearin' when you're in a hellhole like this?" He spat out some orc blood which had flown into his mouth. That stuff was truly foul. It tasted like a combination of tar and rust, not that Logan had ever eaten tar or rust. "We are in a life or death situation here, y'know. I think it justifies cussin'."

"I would rather spend my energy trying to survive," said Berenon.

"You're the one who started the debate!" Damn those orcs. They'd become smart and were not approaching Logan, at least not close enough so that he could stab them. They were using their long pikes when it came to hunting the Wolverine. Well, stuff that. If they could use longer weapons, then so could he. In a swift motion in which he showed amazing flexibility for one as large and heavy as he was, he had pulled out his sword; it had been strapped to his back. Now he brandished it. "You want a piece of me?" he said. "So come and get it, you sons of bitches!"

He relied on pure instinct. It had never failed him yet, and he didn't expect it to anytime soon. Logan might not remember practising swordplay, but his body seemed to know exactly what to do. He parried and lunged and jabbed, and generally felt like D'Artagnan without the feathery hat. It was exhilarating to be fighting in such a different style. Of course, the claws were used to modify his technique so that he became a killing machine. This was as close as they were going to get to a sub-machine gun in Rohan. He never knew he was so good. And so lacking in humility.

* * *

The ground shook as the battle raged on above them. Water droplets were shaken loose from the sharp stalactites. The only thing Éowyn saw when she looked at those pointed rocks were spear heads and swords. Rohan needed all its warriors, so why had she been left out? Did the men really have to be so stubborn? It wasn't right, hiding down here in the caves while her fellow countrymen and strangers from lands she had not even heard of bled and struggled for the survival of Rohan. As a daughter of Rohan, she had a duty to her nation.

She ran her whetting stone along the already sharp blade of her sword. It gleamed dully in the dim light. There were only a few smoky torches and flickering candles down here. If not for the light reflecting off the walls of the Glittering Caves, so named because of the tiny gems embedded in the rock, they would have been sitting in almost complete darkness. No one dared to speak, apart from mothers whispering comforting nonsense to their tiny children who were too young to understand what was going on, and the children themselves, who were still too innocent to be afraid. They stared around them with wide eyes, openly asking for missing fathers and brothers.

The worst part about war was not the fighting, but the waiting; more often than not, it was the women who endured the long hours spent wondering whether their menfolk still lived, or whether they had perished beneath the cruel blades of the orcs. As women, there was little they could do except implore their ancestors to watch over the ones they loved, since society did not allow them to go and fight alongside their men. For a woman such as Éowyn, it was simply incomprehensible. Apparently, she was not the only one who thought that way, since the large clawed man —the one who attempted to be polite— had tried to argue with her uncle to convince him to let her fight, so there had to have been other fighting women.

Something made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. She stopped whetting her sword and stayed entirely still. There were the muffled whimpers of children. That was normal, yes, but there was also something else; something which shouldn't have been down here in the Glittering Caves. Her hand tightened around the hilt of her sword. Her senses were heightened. There was an unwelcome presence here, thinking that it would be easy to sneak in and take the defenders by surprise. If that was the case, then whoever it was, they were sorely mistaken. The men might have been up on the battlements, but the Shieldmaiden was down here in the Glittering Caves, and she was more than ready to fight.

There, she could see their shadows now. Why were they lurking in the dark recesses? There were only women and children here. One would have thought that fearsome creatures such as Saruman's breed of orc would not be afraid of people who were probably unable to fight back. No matter. The more afraid they were, the better it would be for her.

A low growl was all that preceded the orcs' attack. There were two of them —not as many as she had thought, which was a relief. She might think herself accomplished enough to go into battle, but to fight a troop of orcs alone was suicide. She whipped around. Metal clanged as she parried one of the foul creatures' downward swing. The impact made her bones ring and she almost took an involuntary step backwards. These were strong. Perhaps too strong. No, she could not admit defeat. She was a daughter of Rohan. Her country women learned to ride before they could even walk properly. The wives of the few remaining nomadic herdsmen were expected to fight wolves and the like, so why couldn't she, the Shieldmaiden, fight two orcs?

* * *

**A/N: **I hope you enjoyed it. I just realized I wrote an entire chapter based on fights. If there are any mistakes, I apologize. I based Rohirrim culture partly on Europe and partly on that of the Nomadic Mongols, whose women were expected to protect their livestock from predators like wolves. It is a pretty big assumption that the Rohirrim would have a similar culture, but since both cultures are horse-based, it seems to make sense.


	34. Smell of Victory

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything that you recognize. **

**Amba gurl: **Thanks. I have a soft spot for Logan and the Lord of the Rings is my favourite fandom for crossovers. I probably won't be putting anymore X-Men/Women into Middle Earth because that would upset the status quo majorly, but I haven't decided whether some of the Middle Earth people would go to Logan's world and meet his friends.

**Chapter 34: Smell of Victory**

Like an oncoming wall, there was no stopping those dark creatures. They continued to press forwards. No matter how many Legolas shot, how many Boromir and Aragorn decapitated, how many got thrown off the wall by a rampaging Victor, or the number of orcs Logan stabbed, crushed and otherwise killed, they just kept on surging on, swamping Helm's Deep. Saruman's army had been working the battering ram all night, and finally, it was beginning to pay off. With one last crash, the wood splintered and the orcs poured in. Despite having fought for an entire night, their numbers hardly looked diminished.

Elves, men and orcs lay at their feet, bleeding and broken. Most of the defenders were gone. Of the one hundred elven archers sent by the Lady, only about a handful remained, and their captain was not one of them. So many lives. So many people he actually knew and cared about; most of his boys were gone. Logan didn't exactly know what it felt like to be a parent, but he had been looked up to as a father-figure by some students —he had no idea why since he seemed so unsuitable—and he knew how he would feel if he lost one of them. Wait...most of those boys had already lost one parent, if not both. That just made it all the more tragic. Someone had to avenge them, and it seemed that he was the only one who could think of that right now.

"So this is the end," murmured Logan, still not ready to accept that they had lost. He probably never would. The Wolverine did not lose to a bunch of orcs. The king had issued the order for a full retreat, however, and whether he liked it or not, he had to obey said orders. He worked for Théoden at the moment. He rounded up his boys —the ones who were still alive— and told them to get inside the keep while he brought up the rear. They didn't need to be told twice.

The narrow gateway leading to the keep was where Logan and Victor made their stand. Boromir, Aragorn, Éomer and the rest of them had tried to stay and help, but they had been roughly pushed back by the Wolverine, who insisted that they should go in and bar the gates before any more orcs could get in. Of course it didn't sit well with them, but what choice did they have? Logan had been completely rational.

"You're not giving up so easily, are you?" said Victor. He was fighting back to back with his little brother. It was a little nostalgic for both of them. Logan still didn't really remember all the details about the wars, but there seemed to be a constant theme throughout his past; the Sabretooth might have tried to kill him many times, but he was also the one who had stopped others from killing the Wolverine. "I never took you for a defeatist, Jimmy."

"I'm not," snapped Logan. More blood splashed into his face. Some of it got into his eyes, blinding him momentarily, not that he could see very well in the first place. That dratted rain was still falling and it was still as dark as hell, severely limiting any visibility. "But if it's just you an' me, Victor, then I don't see how we can save Rohan single-handedly."

"You severely underestimate my abilities," growled the Sabretooth. Logan remembered too late that one, Victor hated anyone slighting his skill as a killing machine, and two, he really hated Saruman. Those two factors combined made him even more dangerous than he already was. The larger mutant pounced on the charging orcs, all teeth and claws and brute strength. In effect, he almost completely halted the onslaught of the orcs, probably ones he'd helped to train. Logan caught the rest of the stragglers, feeling that ever since Victor had re-entered his life, he had been stealing the spotlight.

"That's all very well!" he shouted to his brother. Orcs fell all around them with snapped necks and severed body bits. Butchering was messy work. He felt sorry for the people who were charged with the task of cleaning up. "But we can't just stay out here all night! There are thousands of these things!"

"How do you like abseiling?" asked Victor.

"Are you kidding me? I'm a veritable expert!"

* * *

"Bring that wood over here!" commanded Boromir. "Higher. Higher!" The men and the remaining elves, as well as one very stubborn dwarf, were piling whatever they could find against the door of the keep. There wasn't much left, except for a few trestle tables. There hadn't even been any catapults to dismantle. Briefly, he wondered about Logan and Victor. The roaring of the orcs meant that listening for signs of his friend was futile. Would Logan's metal skeleton and healing abilities protect him from this? He certainly hoped so.

"We don't have enough, milord!" cried one of the men. As if anyone needed to be told that. It would only be a matter of time before the orcs' battering ram crashed through the reinforced gate, and it seemed it would be sooner rather than later. He didn't voice it, but he knew they were all going to die here. The king of Rohan, the Heir of Isildur, the son of the Steward—almost everyone who would have otherwise gone on to play larger parts in the war against Mordor. Middle Earth's end was drawing near, for with the loss of Rohan, how could Gondor survive? The elves were planning to leave this all behind, not that they had not suffered as well. Night was falling on the Race of Men.

What he didn't remember was that nightfall was when the fireworks began.

They were all taken by surprise when something fell down from the high window in the eastern wall of the great hall, after having broken the edges to enlarge the gap. The flagstones on the floor cracked as it landed.

"What did I miss?" asked Logan as he straightened himself.

* * *

Éowyn feinted to one side. The only way she would be able to defeat these orcs was by using her wits, and not just brutal strength. She knew that as a woman, her physical strength was lesser than that of a man's, but she more than made up for that lack with skill and speed and a lot of cunning.

The orc, taken by surprise, left its defences open. The Shieldmaiden was quick to take advantage of that. She darted forward, all the while wishing that her skirts were not so cumbersome —she would have preferred what that clawed man had worn into battle; his strange breeches looked durable and convenient, even if the fabric was stiff and a bit coarse— and struck at the gap between the creatures heavy plates of armour. The orc bellowed as foul smelling black liquid spilled out. She must have gotten its guts. With its dying strength, it lunged at her. She leapt back just in time to avoid being swept aside by a powerful swipe. The orc's body fell forward. There was a clang as its armour hit the rocky floor of the cave, and then it lay still. Its companion stared at the corpse dumbly. It probably had not expected a Rohirrim woman to be so fierce. That was one advantage which women had over men. Women were constantly being underestimated, making it slightly easier for them to thwart their enemies. Just slightly easier.

Orcs did not mourn the loss of their companions, and this other one was no different. It got over its initial shock quickly enough. With an infuriated roar —or maybe just an instinctive roar— it charged at Éowyn, sword raised and shield at the ready. This one was not going to be underestimating her, and that was something she regretted.

At first, the other women had cowered in the shadows, holding their children tightly to them. Some of them had started whimpering in fear at the appearance of the two orcs. However, after having seen their lady dispatch with one of them, albeit not easily, they had fallen silent, as if contemplating a change in the world order. As the last orc bore down on Éowyn, something seemed to awaken the fiery spirit of Rohan within them. Without needing to say a single word, these women, young and old, took up whatever they could find which remotely resembled a weapon.

The women converged on the lone orc with dull vegetable cleavers, sticks and rocks, and even pots. It didn't take long for the orc to realize that while it might be able to defeat one Shieldmaiden, it could not take on the women of Rohan and win. It started to retreat, only to find itself surrounded by the furious mothers, wives and daughters of those who had bled for this nation of proud Horselords. At last, their fury had been woken, and now they were a terrible force to reckon with. Their anger gave them strength which they never knew they had before. They put their years of suffering, of grieving, behind every blow they delivered. Éowyn didn't even really get close to the orc after that. It was literally bashed to a pulp. Perhaps it was rather unbecoming, but the death of this one orc lifted the spirits of the women immensely. There was no mistaking the hopeful gleam in their eyes, not even in the darkness of the caves.

Perhaps there was a chance for Rohan after all. The men might not agree, but there was no actual reason why they could not contribute actively to defending their country. Rohan was theirs too.

* * *

Logan propped up the doors with the last of the large trestle tables. Great. They were trapped inside here, and even if they could defend it for a time, they were going to run out of supplies pretty soon, and even the Wolverine couldn't go on without food. And seeing the wood of the door splinter with each blow of the battering ram was pretty depressing too. It was as if it signified the disintegration as Middle Earth as they knew it. Well, Logan didn't know it, but he was pretty certain that the old social structure was going to be better than the new one the orcs were sure to establish.

"Send word to the women and children," said Théoden. "They must get out of the caves and escape into the mountains."

"And go where?" muttered Logan, none too softly. He was voicing everyone's thoughts. Once Helm's Deep was taken, Saruman's forces would certainly take over the rest of Rohan in next to no time at all. Where could the women and children run to? They couldn't go home. Théoden knew it. With a great sigh, as if he was ashamed, he turned to Boromir.

"I know this is a great favour to ask, Lord Boromir," he said.

"It is no favour at all, but Gondor's duty to her ally," replied the son of the Steward. "I give you my word that I will do whatever I can to ensure that they reach safety and find refuge with my people. It is the least I can do."

"Thank you," said the king. "No words can convey my gratitude." He turned to regard all of those who had come to Helm's Deep with the sole purpose of helping Rohan. "Milords," he said. "There is no need for you to remain and suffer with us. This is not your fight, and you have already done more than enough for us. While there is still time, you should go."

"I ain't goin' anywhere," said Logan. "If I'd wanted to go, I would've gone ages ago, but I haven't, an' nuthin' you say is gonna change my mind. The Wolverine doesn't run from anyone."

"But he does ride away on a motorbike," said Victor, who just couldn't help himself.

"Well I ain't got a motorbike," snapped Logan. "And I don't plan on just abandoning all these people either."

"No one will be abandoning anyone," growled Gimli, who, at the moment, sounded he ought to be one of the 'clawed brothers' even if he didn't have claws; the dwarf was on the verge of losing his temper entirely, and who knew what he could do when he did? "We only need one man to take the women and children to Gondor, and maybe a few to guard them, but the rest of us will be staying to fight. At least, _I_ will."

"And what if we refuse to leave?" asked a decidedly feminine voice.

Logan had to grin. There was nothing he admired more than a sexy woman who wasn't afraid to stand up for herself. Éowyn was cold and distant to almost everyone, but she sure had spirit. This was no damsel in distress who needed to be rescued —not that he minded rescuing the occasional damsel. She was a woman who would rescue herself, and it seemed that she had persuaded at least half the female population in Rohan to join her in her mission. Her male relatives, however, did not seem to share Logan's enthusiasm.

"What are you thinking, Éowyn?" demanded her brother. Her uncle seemed to be too shocked to speak.

"I am a daughter of Rohan, Éomer, and this is as much my responsibility as it is yours," said the Shieldmaiden. "Young boys are helping to shoulder this burden. Why shouldn't I, an adult woman, carry my share? I am willing, and I am capable. My sword has already tasted the blood of the enemy!" Only when she mentioned that did the men notice the dark blood drying on her weapon and the blood which stained her face —not hers, thankfully, or else there would have been no knowing how Éomer would have reacted.

For a long while, no one spoke. The women and the men stared at each other; neither group was willing to back down. That was until Logan intervened.

"Look, we ain't got time to discuss anythin'," he said, knowing that they probably considered it out of his place to say anything. After all, he was not a nobleman; he wasn't even a Rohirrim. This was none of his business. Not really, anyway, although he considered it his business because he was trapped inside a breached fortress with these people and he would rather they had their staring competitions later. "You wanna fight, go ahead, but be prepared to bleed and die and to be dismembered. Trust me when I say that it ain't pretty when yer guts are strewn all over—"

"Logan!" hissed Boromir. "There are _ladies_ in the vicinity and this is _not_ the moment to be talking about dismemberment."

"I know what fighting entails," said Éowyn. She wasn't the least bit daunted, although some of the other women seemed less certain now. "I am not afraid."

The sound of wood splintering put an abrupt end to that conversation. "I'd love to discuss this topic further, but we got no time, folks," said Logan. "The apocalypse is coming!"

"You're not gonna tell me to repent because the end is nigh, are you?" asked Victor.

"I'd love to tell _you_ that, but we don't have the time," said Logan. He turned his attention to the king. Victor could wait. He'd waited for years. A few more minutes wasn't going to make any difference. Besides, they were going to have plenty of time afterwards. Neither of them were likely to die, unlike the others. No, no; he was not a defeatist, and he was not going to let those pessimistic thoughts get to him. He needed alcohol.

Théoden seemed so undecided. The poor man had to be under a lot of pressure. Everyone was looking to him. Any decision he made would probably lead to death, and no one wanted to be responsible for the downfall of his own country. "Are you certain about this, sister-daughter?"

"I have no doubt," said Éowyn. "Let us ride out, Uncle. In the years to come, they shall not say that the courage of the Rohirrim broke in the face of adversity."

"_Overwhelming_ adversity," muttered Logan under his breath. He felt someone's elbow in his ribs. Berenon. Well, he had guts. They weren't even family yet and he was already bossing the Wolverine around? Logan glared at the Lothlorien elf, who looked at him with a completely neutral expression.

"Ride out to meet them, milord," said Aragorn quietly. Milord? Wasn't Aragorn the heir to someone important whose name Logan couldn't remember? "Let anyone who wishes to fight remain, and those who do not wish to fight may leave. The people of Rohan should be able to choose for themselves. However, one thing is certain; a king should not be hiding behind closed doors."

"Indeed, he should not," said Théoden. For the first time ever since this whole exodus business had begun, he smiled. It wasn't a particularly cheerful smile, but it raised Logan's spirits. At least their leaders was not going to be a defeatist. That had to count for something, right? Okay, he'd lost the pessimistic attitude with a lot of nudging from other people. Still, it was the result that really mattered. "Captain Thorongil. We finally draw swords together. I have been looking forward to this moment since I was a very young boy."

"Thorongil?" said Boromir. "_The_ Captain Thorongil?" He sounded shocked.

"Thong girl?" asked Logan. "Where?"

* * *

Stupid nag. Stupid Victor. Why did he have to howl with laughter in front of all these people in such a sombre moment? Sure, it had been a pretty ridiculous thing to say, but still, it was easy enough a mistake to make. Just as well they didn't have time, or else Victor would have explained to all the confused people about what a thong was and then he'd be in big trouble with everyone. And why wouldn't the nag stay still instead of trying to turn around and bite him?

The door was not going to hold for much longer. The booms were becoming more frequent. Each time the battering ram crashed into the wood, Logan felt the vibrations moving up his spine. It was making all the horses nervous. Not even the elves could keep them under control...properly. As for the nag, he snorted, sidestepped, tossed his head, yanked at the reins, and did everything short of getting down and rolling on the flagstones.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" he whispered to Boromir. He didn't feel good about charging at ten thousand orcs on horseback.

"It is the only idea," the Gondorian whispered back. "At any rate, it is the king's order, and who are you to disobey a king?"

"I'm the Wolverine," said Logan. "That counts for something, y'know."

"I know," said Boromir. "And Logan, I might as well say this while I still have a chance. I am honoured to have known you."

"Save that for when I embarrass everyone at the victory party," said Logan. "Don't look at me like that. There will be one and I will promise you that I will drink everyone under the table. That's just an expression." In the corner of his eye, he saw Éowyn clutching her sword so tightly that her knuckles were white. The poor girl put on a cold tough mask all the time, but inside, Logan bet that she was absolutely terrified, as she ought to be.

"Well, I will hold you to that promise," murmured Aragorn, turning back to glance at Logan and Boromir. "But I might as well warn you now that although he might not look it, Legolas is a very good drinker."

"Hah!" said Logan. He snorted. "Then you'll get to see a drunken elf for the first time in your life."

"Not likely," said Legolas. "I have a long memory, Logan, and I swear that I will take you up on that challenge. Even amongst my own people, I am considered to be a very good drinker."

"Count me in," said Gimli, who was clinging precariously to his own horse. "Why in Mahal's name did you have to put me on a horse?" Before anyone could answer him, the doors gave away. Sunlight flooded into the hall. For a very brief moment, the orcs and the men regarded each other with some trepidation, and then Théoden spurred into action. His horse leapt forward with a high-pitched whinny. Was that the equine version of a battle cry? Logan didn't have any time to think about that. The nag liked to follow others' examples in all situations and this was no different. As the animal sprang forwards, the laws of physics would have made Logan fly backwards if he hadn't been clinging on so tightly with his one free hand and his thighs. Unfortunately, he could not hold onto the pommel of his saddle for he had been forced to use his sword for this. His claws were simply not long enough to reach orcs from such a height. Not that it really mattered in the end.

Before they were ten seconds into the charge —and it was just a charge in every sense of the word because more orcs were trampled than cut down—, they turned a very sharp corner. Logan, not being the best horseman around, lost his balance and his grip. He fell into the sea of black bodies, not without results.

William Stryker had once told him that he was a survivor, and there was one very important factor which had contributed greatly to his survival in a world where everyone seemed to want to kill him —apart from the mutant healing powers, that was. The Wolverine was adaptable. He knew how to turn most situations to his advantage, although diplomatic situations seemed to be the exceptions every time. In the heat of battle, his senses and reactions were heightened. The adrenaline was coursing through his veins. By the time he actually landed, he'd twisted in the air and managed to use the force behind his fall to drive his claws into two different orcs. The problem was that he was absolutely surrounded with no chances for getting back up. Oh well. This only meant that he was probably going to bag more kills than anyone else in the group. Unfortunately, he wasn't all that good at killing and counting at the same time. Swearing was so much more effective.

"Jimmy! That's not the right direction and you know it." Victor? Well, that was a surprise. The Sabretooth had abandoned his horse. To what fate, Logan didn't exactly want to know. However, he did not need to use his imagination to figure out how his brother got his latest ride. This was the largest warg he had ever seen, and it was also the nastiest.

Victor reached out to Logan and bodily hauled him onto the warg's back. Logan was about to protest. That adamantium skeleton was heavy and Victor wasn't exactly Tinkerbell. However, the warg did not collapse beneath their combined weight. "Wargs are tough," said Victor. "Like us."

"I'm not a warg!" Logan shouted as drove his foot into an orc's face.

"Face it, Jimmy," said Victor. The others were just ahead of them, mired in a sea of seething black bodies and dull blades. Their blades flashed in the morning sun as droplets of dark liquid flew from them. Blood was splashing everywhere. Logan could smell the tainted metallic tang. Of course, that could be from his own kills. God knew he had enough of them under his belt, not literally speaking, of course. He dug his heels into the warg's side and they went off in the right direction, ploughing through the enemy as if they were driving a tank instead. Orcs either got out of the way or got shredded by three creatures with claws. It was simple, really. "You're a predator like me. Always have been."

"If you think that I'm anythin' like you, then you have a long think ahead of you," said Logan. "I'm not the one who would sacrifice little girls to 'save' the mutants, and I don't give myself manicures."

Logan would have been in a spot of trouble if a horn did not suddenly sound in the distance. Who the hell could it be? It couldn't be more orcs, could it? The defenders definitely could not deal with more of these things. No, no. That was definitely not an orc. It was too bright. Actually, it was only bright because whatever it was, it was directly in front of the rising sun and Logan had not brought his sunglasses to Middle Earth. Wait...that was Gandalf! Logan had almost completely forgotten about the old fella during the turmoil of battle. God bless him! The wizard had kept his word and brought reinforcements. There had never been a more beautiful view than this one of Gandalf and hundreds of mounted warriors on a hilltop, silhouetted by the rising sun.

"We are saved!" cried Boromir.

"Alleluia!" shouted Logan. "I don't really mean that."

The sight of the wizard and the extra fresh troops renewed the strength and spirits of the remaining defenders. Logan leapt off the warg. As convenient as it was to have a ride, he fought better when he was on his own two feet. And he didn't want to be indebted to his brother any more than was necessary. The warg was Victor's. If Logan was going to get a ride, then it would be his own ride. There were certain things which the Wolverine did not share.

With the arrival of the fresh Rohirrim troops, the orcs were now sandwiched between a rock and a hard place, literally. The cliffs at the back of Helm's deep were too tall and sheer to scale and the newly arrived soldiers were out for blood. Now, whenever Logan had a sandwich, he would inevitably squeeze it too hard and all the sauce would spurt out at the sides. This was exactly what the orcs did, only to find that a forest had appeared in the middle of their escape route. A day ago, there had been nothing there but some sparse yellowed grass.

What the hell was going on?

* * *

They were a legend, or so he had thought. Even after so many years, Middle Earth could still throw surprises at him. Victor blinked, thinking—hoping that it was just a hallucination, or a mirage. But no. This was real. He could smell thee moss and the scent of leaves. These were trees. Real, photosynthesizing, _moving_ trees. He had heard the orcs and Saruman mention the guardians of Fangorn Forest once or twice, but every time, they had simply dismissed them as old wives tales.

The Uruks fled into the forest. At first, the trees let them be, but after they had all gone in, the sounds of slaughter began. The rest of them could only stare as the branches began moving and the trees shuffled to close in around those who had once cut down their companions for fuel. This was bizarre. Trees were not supposed to have feelings. Trees were not supposed to be able to pick themselves up and plant themselves elsewhere, and trees definitely were not supposed to kill on purpose. It was disturbing. Coming from the Sabretooth, it meant a lot.

"Trees won the battle?" he heard Logan say. "You have gotta be kiddin' me." It was good to know that his brother shared his sentiments. All of a sudden, he wondered how Saruman would react if he could see what was going on now. Victor grinned. That was an image he liked.

* * *

**A/N: **I hope you enjoyed the chapter.


	35. Soldiering On

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Anon: **Thank you very much for you in-depth comments. I really appreciate that you took the time to tell me what you thought and why. Right now, I will probably only concentrate on getting the story down, but when I'm finished and am making modifications, I will definitely keep in mind what you said and consider your points carefully.

**Chapter 35: Soldiering On**

Logan was never going to look at plants the same way again. Just as well the forest which had appeared seemingly out of thin air was so dense that no one could really see anything. The screams of the orcs as they were torn limb to limb by trees were enough. He was going to be very careful the next time he went into a forest. These trees were things which he could not afford to offend.

He glanced around him. Everyone seemed to be as shocked as he was, which was unusual, although not entirely unpleasant. It was nice not to be the only one who got surprised by the strange happenings in Middle Earth. Éomer was telling the men to stay away from the trees. Wise advice, not that anyone looked like they were going to go anywhere near the forest. Logan certainly wasn't. He was daring and reckless, not suicidal.

"Killer trees," murmured Victor. "And I thought I'd seen it all."

"Then you really were overestimating yourself," said Logan. "I've been here for months now and I'm still not used to it."

"And I've been here for years. I should be used to it," said Victor.

"These people have lived here all their lives and they're still not used to it," Logan pointed out. Integrating into a society wasn't as easy as it looked in the movies. It took ages to get used to strange things, and when a society was this different from the one he was used to at home, he doubted he would ever entirely integrate, not that he had actually integrated into normal society back where he came from. He was a loner. Always had been. In fact, he had more in common with these old-fashioned military men than he did with the average Joe back in the States.

The screams of the orcs were becoming fainter. He doubted that many of them escaped, and even if some of them did, they would hardly constitute a threat to Rohan anymore. Who would have thought that these bedraggled men and women would have held out against such a vicious assault? The Rohirrim had more guts and strength than he had given them credit for. Men were clapping each other on the back, laughing in relief to realize that they had survived this first wave. It was a huge victory. No one could deny it. In fact, it might even have been bigger than that of Stalingrad. After all, the orcs had not been half frozen. Yes, it was definitely a great victory, but at what cost? He glanced back at the fortress. Hundreds of men and elves lay dead. Their blood stained those stones. It was an altar on which those warriors —and children— had sacrificed their blood in exchange for their country and the freedom of their fellow men. He knew that it was irrational, but he felt guilty. Guilty that he had not been able to save them. He was the Wolverine. He was more than just a man, and yet, he had failed those boys.

"You tried," said someone quietly behind him. "It was all you could do. It never becomes any easier." His Gondorian friend seemed to have a penchant for knowing exactly what he was thinking, and he always knew what to say.

"I told them it was going to be fine," said Logan without glancing back. He stared down at his bloodstained hands.

"You did what you had to," said Boromir, placing a hand on the Wolverine's shoulder. "A commander could hardly have told his troops that they were more than likely to die. It's not what they want to hear."

"Still, it was a lie," said Logan.

"I think they knew that," said Boromir. "Even so, what you did was right."

"It was?" said Logan. "Man, I don't know. I encouraged them to charge to their deaths. There's gotta be somethin' wrong with that."

"Possibly, but an inspirational speech was the difference between victory and defeat. It was for the greater good. Feel bad about it if you must, but know that it was necessary and they died through no fault of yours."

"Yeah, well, it's impossible not to feel that it is my fault."

"Can you explain to me why it is your fault? Would they have lived if you had not told them that everything was going to be fine?"

"I suppose it doesn't make a difference in that sense, but I just can't help it. They were just kids." The two men watched from a distance as the remaining boys were reunited with their families. So much joy and grief all mingled together. It didn't seem rational, not even after all the battles Logan had ever been through. Boromir was right. Such things never became easier with the passing of time, unlike other things.

"Master Logan?" It was Berenon. The elf looked sombre as he approached the Wolverine. He stopped just in front of him, and then bowed stiffly to Boromir. Something seemed to pass between the Gondorian and the elf; something too subtle for Logan to decipher.

"I will leave you to speak in private," said Boromir. "It is good to see you again, Master Berenon." He clapped Logan on the shoulder once more before going off to join Legolas and Gimli, who were arguing about something.

"I leave for Lothlorien in an hour, with the rest of my kin," said the elf.

"Oh," said Logan, not quite sure what that had to do with him.

"I think I might go to Rivendell for a short while," continued Berenon. "Would you like me to carry a message for you to my sister?"

Ah. Logan felt foolish now. He ought to have realized that. Hmm...what to say? He couldn't spout romantic poetry off the top of his head. In fact, he didn't even think he could say anything romantic. He found fictional romances to be cheesy and boring. Comedies with dirty humour were more his thing. So...what would a real romantic hero, who wasn't a sissy, do in this situation? 'Be honest,' he told himself. Sidhien liked him for who he was. She knew he wasn't sophisticated like Aragorn and Legolas and there was absolutely no need to pretend. He also didn't need to try and impress her with literature. She understood. "Just tell her that I miss her a lot and I really wanna see her again," he said. "And I hope she's well."

"Simple and to the point," commented Berenon. "I can see why my sister has a... certain fascination for you." Obviously, he did not approve of said fascination, but he seemed to have accepted it and was not about to try and stop it. That was all that mattered.

"I'm not going to make a fool of myself trying to make up poetry," said Logan. "Never really saw the point of making a cryptic rhyming verse anyway. All people ever try to do is tear it apart during literature analysis. I subbed for a literature class once. Most horrible class I ever took."

"I do not really understand what you speak of, but I take it you do not appreciate the finesse of poetry," said Berenon.

"Damn right I don't," said Logan. "I don't see what's so fine about it anyway. If you've got something to say, say it. I can live without the meteor—metaphors."

"Very well then," said Berenon. "I shall endeavour not to confuse you with meteors the next time we meet."

"You're making fun of me," said Logan, pointing out the obvious.

"If you want to be part of the family, then that is something you will have to get used to," said the elf.

Logan put up a hand. "Hold on a second," he said. "Hold it right there. Did you just say 'part of the family'?"

"I did," said Berenon. "You did not mishear anything this time."

"You mean...you're okay with me and your sister?" Well...this was good news. Maybe there was something to celebrate after all.

"I underestimated you, Logan. You are a good man, even if you are a bit uncivilized at times. My sister cannot forget you, and it seems you have not forgotten her either. I might not like it, but it is not my right to decide for her," said Berenon. He placed a hand —such long slender fingers— on Logan's shoulder. "I promise you that if you hurt her, I will kill you, no matter what it takes."

"Neither of those things will happen," said Logan. "So...your family is fine with it?"

"My family? They do not know. I am waiting for my sister to tell them herself. It is her news."

It definitely was a pleasant surprise. Who would have thought that the overprotective older brother would actually approve? Well, not approve, but Logan had not expected Berenon to actually give him the green light, considering how the elf had reacted when he had called Sidhien 'honey'. "Hey, listen," he said. "I know she's probably worried about me, so tell her that I'm fine and that I'll be seeing her as soon as this is all over." That was about as romantic as he was willing to get in front of his potential girlfriend's brother. Oh, if only they had cell-phones in Middle Earth. He knew how to send romantic text messages —barely— with smiley faces.

"You know, you could draw a romantic picture even if you cannot write a love letter." Trust Legolas to overhear everything and to read his mind, except the elven prince did not seem to know that there were severe limits to Logan's artistic skills.

"Don't you have orcs to count or something?" asked Logan.

"Why else would I come and find you?" asked the elf in return. "Gimli and I cannot agree, and we decided that you should be the judge."

"Why do you even need a judge? I mean, this is a number game. Either you got more than him or less than him, or you got a draw, which means I win by default because there needs to be a winner. I'm not making much sense, am I?"

"No, you are not, but that does not matter," said Legolas. "It is not something so complicated as deciding how many we got. Rather, it is deciding what sort of kill we can claim."

"The ones you killed, obviously," said Logan.

"What he means is that you get to decide whether the orcs crushed by the ladder he shot down actually count," came Gimli's gruff voice.

"You shot down a ladder?!" said Logan. "How'd you do that?"

"There was a _rope_ pulling up a ladder with lots of orcs on it and he shot _that_," said Gimli. "Therefore, technically speaking, the crushed orcs were merely a fortuitous result of the falling ladder."

"Ah, but without my arrow, that ladder would not have fallen and those orcs would not have died," said Legolas.

"Of course they would have died! Someone would have killed them, be it trees or men, or one incensed dwarf," said Gimli.

"But it was not men or trees or the incensed dwarf who killed those orcs," Legolas pointed out. Logan wished he could have beer and corn chips right now. This was better than any witty comedy he had ever seen. No character on television spoke so formally and sounded so immature at the same time, not that Logan saw anything wrong with having an aggressive competition. It was healthy.

"It was not you either," said Gimli. "Accidents do not count."

"My dear dwarf, I did not shoot that rope by accident," said Legolas.

"Hold it, hold it," said Logan. "You're just going around in circles. Can't you just say I won and let that be the end of it?"

"Absolutely not!" said Gimli before Logan had even finished the last syllable.

"Logan, to use your own words, you must be 'kidding'," said Legolas. "How many did you kill?"

"Geez, it's not as if I had the time to make a tally chart during the battle," grumbled the Wolverine. "Besides, some of us had responsibilities."

"Are you implying something, Logan?" asked the elf, pretending to be insulted.

"You know I am," said the mutant with a grin. Two could play this game. "I'm not subtle and devious like you."

"I take offence to that," said the elven prince, "although I have been told more than once that I can be an excellent diplomat when I put my mind to it."

"That just proves my point," said Logan. "All good diplomats are subtle and devious; otherwise, they never make it to the top."

"You make it sound as if subtlety were a bad thing," said Legolas.

"It is all a matter of perspective, young Greenleaf," said the rich voice of Gandalf behind them. "Bluntness is sometimes a virtue. On the other hand, Master Logan, before you split your face with that grin, it can also be a pain, depending on the situation."

"Surely you did not come all the way over here to tell us about virtue, Mithrandir?" said Legolas.

"Indeed, no, I came with the intention of congratulating you for surviving and to tell you that King Théoden, Lord Éomer and a small company of men, along with myself, are riding to Isengard to confront Saruman. I thought that perhaps you might want to join us."

"Victor's going, isn't he?" asked Logan. "Whenever he's opened his mouth, he's said something about that Icing Guard place. Yes, I know it's 'Isengard' but Icing Guard is the first thing that comes to mind and you all know what I'm sayin' anyway."

"Just as long as you know the true pronunciation," said Gandalf, shaking his head. "Indeed, your brother insisted that he accompany us and we saw no reason to deny him."

"He might just rip Saruman from limb to limb," said Logan, "and I'm sure that's against some sort of social or political convention."

"You underestimate Saruman if you think that a man with claws can harm him," said Gandalf. "I take it that you are going too?"

"Hell yeah! I mean...yes," said Logan. "I wanna see the guy who's caused so much trouble and killed so many people. You are going to bring him to trial for crimes against humanity, right?"

"I am sure we would know the answer if we knew what 'crimes against humanity' were," said Legolas. "You can tell us on the way and then we will decide."

* * *

At last, it was over. Victory was sweet, especially against one who had once enslaved him and treated him just like a beast. The horse beneath him seemed to know that he was feeling particularly aggressive at the moment because it kept on snorting and shaking its head in a very agitated manner, not that such behaviours posed a problem for him. Victor Creed had trained wargs and disciplined Uruk Hai; a mere herbivore was not going to trump him.

However, he was not so smug that he forgot to pay attention to his surroundings. Fangorn was still a dangerous place, and he had seen firsthand just how dangerous angry trees could be. He felt as if he was being watched, although the trees weren't the only ones who were watching. No, this was not just a suspicion triggered by his 'sixth sense'; someone was definitely keeping an eye on his every move. Two eyes, to be exact. He glanced backwards and his gaze met with that of the Wolverine. Did Logan know about his plans? If he did, then it would be a lot more difficult to carry them out. His brother might have a tendency to create diplomatic disasters, but when it came to violent politics, as in assassination, kidnapping and the like, even Victor could not deny that he was skilled. Perhaps it was his natural instinct as a predator. If Logan even suspected anything, then taking out both the Heir of Isildur and the future Steward of Gondor would be nigh impossible. If the Sabretooth had to choose between the two men, he would choose Elendil's Heir.

His prime target was riding just in front of him. Who would have thought that this scruffy man would be the one who had the power within him to be a genuine threat to the Dark Lord?

Wooden groans —literally wooden, because the trees were the ones producing them— continued around them as the forest more or less told them that they were not entirely welcome, even if they meant no harm. Of course, Victor did intend to chop them down once the Dark Lord completed his goal of world domination. It actually sounded clichéd, this whole world domination business. Usually, one would find such things in comic books or the like. However, that was the truth. There were people out there who wanted to rule everything, and Sauron was the only one Victor had encountered who actually had the means to do it. It was the main reason the Sabretooth had entered into Mordor's service.

* * *

Logan knew that look on Victor's face. He'd seen it before...somewhere. He didn't exactly remember when or where, but he knew what it entailed. His brother was cooking up something, and usually, Victor's plans were not pleasant. He wasn't the type of guy who planned surprise birthday parties and secretly tried to bake cakes. Logan wasn't either, but he was also less inclined to think up ways to murder people. Victor, on the other hand, was very good at it, and more importantly, he liked it. About what Victor was planning, Logan had no clue. He knew how to read his brother's expressions, not his brother's mind. It was a pity that Galadriel or one of the other mind-readers were not here. Wait...could Gandalf read minds?

Before he could ask, the company emerged into the sunlight. Its warmth refreshed Logan. It was good to be out of that dank dark forest, and he knew he wasn't the only one who was thinking that. Gimli was openly voicing it, albeit he was whispering to Legolas.

Before them stood a miracle of architecture. Logan had thought that nothing could beat Moria, but this stone tower before him was just impressive, if not more so, because it was so tall that the top of it pierced the bottom-most layer of clouds. The entire tower was built out of polished black stone, or so it seemed. It also looked like that something of Biblical proportions had happened here recently, perhaps a flood to rival Noah's. There was a natural moat of muddy water all around the tower. The wall surrounding it had been almost completely destroyed. Only a few sections remained. Two small figures sat on one of these sections. Logan smelled smoke and meat, amongst other things. However, those were not his main concern, for the two people on the wall were their two missing friends.

"Well, aren't you an impressive lot!" cried Pippin, standing up and saluting them with an enviably large tankard of something. Logan sincerely hoped that it was beer. Come to think of it, he could do with a smoke as well. "Welcome, milords! Welcome to Isengard!"

"You don't say!" shouted Gimli in mock outrage. "Do you know what a merry chase we went on to try and rescue you, and here you are, indulging in pipeweed and...and food!"

"We won a great victory, Gimli," called Merry. He took a puff on his pipe and then breathed out the smoke in a torturously slow manner. "These are only a few well-deserved comforts."

"Then what about some comforts for people who just finished fighting, eh?" said Logan. "Where'd you get it all anyway?" Before the conversation could take off, however, Gandalf lifted a hand to interrupt it.

"While you may all be eager to raid Saruman's storage areas, there are more important matters to tend to," said the White Wizard. "Although, I must say, that pipeweed smells quite tempting."

"Well, then," said Logan. "Official business first, and then I'm off to loot. And Victor, you are coming with me because you have to show me where all the good stuff is." It was best to keep an eye on Victor. Who knew what he could be planning? Logan had a feeling that his brother was not entirely on his side. In fact, he was quite sure that the Sabretooth was not on his side. Victor only ever sided with himself.

"Oh, we know exactly where to find everything," said Pippin. "We helped Treebeard to note down everything in Isengard. Speaking of Treebeard, here he is!"

The Wolverine's claws came out in a flash. What he had mistaken for just a tree was now striding towards them with slow heavy steps. In fact, there were a lot of those things. Walking trees. _Now _he had really seen it all. "No, Logan!" called Gandalf. "Treebeard is a friend and ally of ours."

"That's a walking tree!" spluttered Logan.

"Treebeard is an Ent, Logan," said Merry. "There is actually quite a bit of difference between Ents and trees."

"Of course there are a lot of differences between ants and trees," said Logan, who had not yet regained his composure and therefore was not listening properly. "I know what ants look like and _that_ is not an ant."

"Most definitely not," said 'Treebeard'. "I, young master, am an _Ent_, not an ant." Logan still did not really understand. He glanced over at Victor, who only shrugged and continued to stare, just like the rest of them. The Wolverine felt a bit better about not being the only one who did not know what an 'Ent' was. Treebeard spoke at an excruciatingly slow pace. His voice was rich, almost like that of an Italian opera singer, but rougher and more 'earthy', if that could be a word used to describe a voice. Instead of skin, he had bark. A luxuriant growth of moss served as a beard and his arms were branches. Too bad he didn't have a camera with him. That would be one prize-winning photograph. Treebeard looked as if he was about to explain what an Ent was for the benefit of those who were completely baffled by the sight of a walking 'tree', but Gandalf started questioning him about Saruman, who was more or less under house arrest. Having been assured that the former White Wizard had been secured inside the tower, Gandalf thanked Treebeard and then turned to the others.

"Be careful," he said. "Even though he has been overthrown, Saruman is still a dangerous enemy. Beware his voice."

"His voice?" asked Logan.

"It is hard to explain," said Gandalf, "at least in a short time, but you will know what I mean once you hear it." The group of men, hobbits, one elf and one dwarf rode through the muddy water. "There were once deep chasms around here," the wizard warned them as the company picked a seemingly random and zig-zagging path towards the tower. Orthanc; that was what it was called. "One wrong step, and you could very well find yourself in a submerged cavern."

"Never mind caverns," said Legolas. "I see a wizard. Up there." The Wolverine had to squint before he could make out anything. At the very top of the tower, where there were what looked like three propellers sticking out of the structure, was the silhouette of something that didn't look like stone. No, actually, there were two somethings. "Saruman and Grima Wormtongue," Legolas elaborated.

Victor let out a hate-filled snarl.

* * *

**A/N: **I apologize for the short chapter this week. I've just been so busy with my five assignments and I have writer's block; very bad combination. Chapters will probably be short until after 12 October.


	36. Of Beer and a Palantir

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything that you recognize. **

**LadyGreySun: **Hey! It's good to see you again! Obviously Victor does not consider himself to be a comic book character ;). It would be funny if he ever did see himself in a graphic novel though. Thanks for the review.

**Amba gurl: **Well, for Victor and Saruman, we'll have to see ;). Although, if the two of them ever got into an argument, I know exactly which one I'd put my money on, and it's not the guy with claws. Thanks for the review.

**Partypony: **Thanks. The chapters will definitely keep on coming; I feel bad if I don't update.

Thanks also to **Vballmania23 **and **Mf**, and to everyone else who reviewed. I really appreciate it.

**Chapter 36: Of Beer and a Palantir **

For someone who had caused so much trouble, Saruman really didn't look all that impressive. In fact, Logan was rather disappointed. For one, he couldn't see the wizard properly. He had great hearing and a great sense of smell, but he did not have telescopic vision, which was a pity, really, because that had to be useful. Secondly, he had expected someone of epic proportions, more like the 'bell-rock' than…well, Gandalf, at least from what he could see, which, admittedly, wasn't very much.

"What does he look like?" whispered Logan.

"Long white beard, high forehead, pointed nose, robes which change colour whenever I look at them from a different angle," said Legolas.

"He's got a Technicolor Cloak?" asked Logan.

"I do not know what you mean," said the elf.

"Never mind," said the Wolverine. "Broadway references are wasted on you."

Saruman might not have looked like much, but as soon as he heard the corrupted wizard's voice, the Wolverine began to get an inkling of why people were still wary of him, even though he was virtually powerless by now.

"I have been waiting for you," said Saruman. His voice rang out clearly across the razed landscape and echoed as if he was standing in a stone chamber with a high domed roof and they were all in there with him. The tones washed over them; it was so rich and smooth. If Logan had been poetically inclined, he would have compared Saruman's voice with crimson satin, or maybe the beer he had back at Bree, which had been absolutely heavenly. Right now, he was of the opinion that the wizard was probably an excellent hypnotist; actually, he could take out the 'probably' part. Saruman was definitely a good hypnotist. Logan almost wanted to nod in agreement to everything he said. However, the Wolverine had had quite a bit of experience with people who liked to fiddle with the minds of others, and he didn't take well to people who played with his head. "Do you not remember how Rohan and Isengard have always been allies, Théoden? There is no reason why this matter cannot be settled diplomatically. The alliance can be renewed, and together, we shall hold out against the forces of Mordor and bring peace to Middle Earth."

The King of Rohan hesitated. Uncertainty was obvious. He, like many of the others, were being seduced by the sound of that voice. Why wasn't Gandalf doing anything to stop it? _Could_ Gandalf do anything to stop it. Then, just as Logan was about to do something himself, Théoden took a deep breath and jerked out of the trance he had been in. "There will be no peace with you, Saruman!" he declared. "You must answer for your crimes! And while I still have breath in my body, I will not stop until I have brought you to justice and made you answer for the men, women and children whose blood stain the stones of Helm's Deep!"

"Answer? To whom?" sneered the wizard. Here was the epitome of condescension, and the disdain which he could detect in Saruman's voice jerked Logan out of the trance he seemed to have fallen into without even realizing it. "To you? If that is what you think, then you are sorely mistaken, for I would not deign to sit as down as equals with an old fool of a king who cannot even guard his own borders and the kingdom which has been handed down to him by his forebears. You are a lesser son of greater predecessors, Théoden, son of Thengel!."

Swords were drawn, claws were extended, arrows were put to bows and teeth were bared. The only problem was that it was unlikely that anyone could actually get to Saruman, unless someone decided to climb up the tower. Now, there was an idea.

"Why aren't we inside?" he whispered to Boromir.

"Do you really think Saruman would have left the door unlocked?" the Gondorian whispered back. Good point. "And before you even mention it, Logan, I doubt that even you can scale the walls of Orthanc. As your friend, I would rather you did not try, for your own safety."

"Abseiling is one of the least risky things I've tried," said Logan, "and Victor looks like he's gonna do it."

"You won't answer to him, will you, Saruman?" growled the Sabretooth. His hands, usually hidden by gloves, were bared now, and so were his claws, still stained with the blood of unfortunate orcs, but undoubtedly sharp. "Then you answer to me!"

"Ah, the beast has returned to his tamer," said Saruman. Logan sucked in a breath through his teeth. Victor would not have liked that, and he had some idea of what an angry Sabretooth was capable of. He just wasn't sure what Victor would do when he realized that there was no way he could get to Saruman. Whatever it was, it wasn't going to be pretty. Actually, they weren't going to find out because Logan wasn't going to let Victor's vendetta mess things up. He reached over and grabbed his brother by the arm. Victor whipped around. Logan had never seen so much hate all concentrated in one face before, and he had seen a lot of hatred over the years. Of course, Victor was the best hater. He'd had years to perfect it.

"Steady on," Logan whispered.

"No one crosses me and gets away with it," snarled Victor. Obviously, he didn't care whether people saw him like this or not. Revenge was the only thing that mattered to him. "No one, Jimmy, you got it?"

"I got it," said Logan. He realized that he was sounding a bit patronizing, like a teacher, or, God forbid, a shrink. "But just wait. I'm sure Gandalf will deal with it."

"We come not for retribution, Saruman, but to offer you a chance for redemption!" called Gandalf. Logan cringed. Well, his assurance had just fallen flat, and Victor's expression had become more murderous, if that was even possible. How did that guy keep his teeth so white?

"Redemption?" demanded Victor, just as one of the Rohirrim warriors had been about to protest. "There is no redemption for him!"

"Quiet!" hissed Logan. And people said that _he_ was a bad diplomat? Victor was much worse. "You're not helping. It's not like you can get up that tower anyway—or do you know a secret way in, because if you do, I'll go with you and we'll sort it out." Everyone heard that, although, much to Gandalf's merit, the wizard ignored the two brothers completely and continued to cajole and negotiate. Others looked rather enthusiastic about Logan's proposed plan of action. Gimli was one of them.

"There will be no 'sorting it out'," whispered Aragorn, who had noticed the rush of excitement and was wasting no time in putting an end to that little fantasy. "As much as I would like to see Saruman pay for what he has done, we must not be so short-sighted. There is a reason for all of this; I guarantee it. Gandalf never does anything without reason."

"I don't give a damn what that wizard is thinking," growled Victor. "I want—"

"Yes, I know what you want," said Logan, cutting Victor off in mid-sentence. "However, we don't always get what we want. That's a fact of life, Victor. There are lives at stake."

"Do I look like I care?"

"Well, you should, because if this whole thing goes to pot, believe me, you're going down with the rest of us. I'll make damn sure of it." Victor was a man who looked to his own interests, and Logan knew that his brother knew that it wouldn't be in his best interests to make the Wolverine his enemy. After all, only one clawed brother had the adamantium skeleton. If they were to fight, well, Logan knew who would win. There was absolutely no doubt about it. He had never claimed that humility was one of his virtues.

"I know what it is that you seek, Gandalf," said Saruman. "You wish to know what I know. To see the plans of the Dark Lord himself!"

"Then you are mistaken, Saruman," said Gandalf, "for I have come to neither kill you nor interrogate you. Freedom is yours, should you choose. Surrender your staff and the keys to Orthanc. Share what you will, if you do know anything, but I shall not force you to speak."

"Freedom?" scoffed Saruman. "There must be conditions, then? And what sort of fool do you take me to be? Does a man open his door to robbers who would strip him of everything he owned?"

"Then stay in there if you so wish," said Gandalf.

"You forget that you have no power over me!" cried Saruman. His voice had become like thunder. "Who do you think you are? _I_ am the head of our order!"

"You were," corrected Gandalf. "Not anymore." He raised his staff and all of a sudden, he was more than just an old man. He looked powerful —which he probably was. Logan could feel something, like electricity gathering in the air around him for absolutely no discernible reason. It was confusing, and more than just a little unnerving. While he had dealt with many mutant powers before, all this wizard and magic stuff was still relatively new and it could not be explained by genetics—not that he understood genetics, but genetics was a better explanation than absolutely nothing. "Saruman, your staff is broken!" Light flashed, and there was a loud crack which sounded so much like a gunshot that Logan forgot that he was in a world where guns were unheard of and leapt on the person next to him ­—Boromir­— to knock him to the ground in order to avoid the non-existent machine-gun fire.

The two men landed with a splash in the muddy water below. The sudden noise, the light and the abrupt actions of the Wolverine were more than the horses could bear. Panicked squeals and whinnies erupted, adding to the chaos. The animals reared and tried to flee. The situation was less than ideal, mainly because Logan and Boromir were on the ground whilst the horses were beginning to stampede. The two men scrambled up, only to be almost knocked over again by a bolting horse.

"What's going on?" demanded the Gondorian.

"Sorry, it was a case of mistaken location!" Logan shouted above the din. "I thought it was gunfire!"

"What fire? There's water all around us! Nothing can burn!"

"Never mind! It's too complicated! Damn, this is messy!" With the help of the horse whisperer —in the form of a certain elven prince— and a lot of Rohirrim, the horses finally managed to calm down, while Saruman watched passively from above.

"Do you really think that this rabble can hold out against the forces of Mordor?" corrupted wizard asked. The contempt in his voice was obvious, but somehow, he still managed to make it sound smooth, in an unpleasant way, like an oil slick. "Surely, Gandalf, you have not fallen so far into folly that you believe a few herdsmen, two animals with claws and a ranger and a bedraggled company of representatives from fading kingdoms can possibly pose a threat to the power of the Dark Lord? You may have won this battle, but there is still a war to be fought."

"And do you really think we have become such fools that we would listen to the venom spilling from your mouth?" Gimli shouted back. At last, someone else other than Victor had lost his temper. Frankly, Logan thought that it was about time because that meant he would be able to lose his temper as well and this time, it wouldn't just be him and Victor.

"What concern do you have Rohan, Gimli, Gloin's son?" asked Saruman. "Your people hide in their caves, digging for rocks and crafting petty trinkets, caring and knowing about nothing in the outside world."

"That's it!" shouted Logan. "I've had enough of him!"

"You and me, Jimmy, we're gonna take him down!" snarled Victor.

"Nobody is going up into that tower!" said Gandalf. "Saruman is a broken foe. He cannot harm anyone anymore. The last thing we need is chaos on our hands. There are more important battles ahead. Stop behaving like children. If my hair was not already white, you would make it white!"

"Then we'd just buy hair dye to make up for it," said Logan. "I apologize, Gandalf. I just don't take well to people callin' me an animal."

"Who does?" asked Gandalf. "But rash actions may lead to further disasters, and that is something we cannot risk. Remember that. It might help. Or not."

"I don't see how killing Saruman of the Rainbow Robes is gonna create a disaster, diplomatic or otherwise," grumbled Logan. "I mean, he's been divested of his power now and there is nothing he can do to us."

"I would not be so certain," said Gandalf. "Be wary of him. There might be a few tricks he has not revealed." He had not even finished speaking when something hurtled down from above. The projectile, whatever it was, barely missed Gandalf's head. It fell with a splash into the muddy water at their feet and then settled at the bottom with a solid "thunk". For a while, everyone stared at the place where that thing had landed. There was some trepidation about picking it up. Who knew what sort of sorcery Saruman could be using? However, nothing happened. It was probably just a rock. Or maybe a large paperweight.

"If that's his hidden trick, then you needn't have worried," said Logan.

"No, that was not Saruman," said Gandalf. "No matter how desperate he is, he would never resort to throwing things. It is beneath him."

"I believe that was our old friend Grima Wormtongue," said Legolas. "What did he throw?"

"Why don't you pick it up and see what it is?" asked Logan.

"Why are you not picking it up?" challenged the elf.

"I'm not afraid if that's what you mean," said Logan. With that, he reached down into the water even while Aragorn was objecting to this obviously rash decision. The Wolverine's hand made contact with something round, hard and smooth. And heavy. "It's a...crystal ball." It wasn't just any crystal ball. There was something so alluring about it, so intriguing and attractive. Logan didn't know why, but he just wanted to stare into the crystal's centre. Nothing else seemed to matter...

Someone snatched the crystal from his hands, pulling him out of his trance. With a speed which belied his age, Gandalf wrapped up the ball in a piece of fabric, possibly someone's cloak, and stowed it away within the folds of his voluminous robes. "What is it?" asked Logan. "What did you do that for?"

"That is no mere trinket, Master Logan," said Gandalf. "It is dangerous." Logan raised an eyebrow at that, but decided that he had probably caused enough trouble for the day. Apart from it being able to cause head fractures when it was lobbed at someone's head accurately, Logan didn't see how the crystal ball was dangerous at all.

With Saruman powerless and safely locked in his tower, the company saw fit to explore. "Logan?" said Merry. The Wolverine had been so occupied with his questions about the pretty crystal ball that he hadn't heard the hobbit approaching him. "Didn't you say you wanted to loot the stores?"

"Oh, yeah," said Logan. "I'm starvin'." That was true. Ever since their very meagre breakfast, he hadn't eaten and his stomach's complaints were getting louder and more persistent.

"That's good then, because Pippin and I have decided that you and the others deserve a nice hobbit-style lunch, and although we have already eaten, there's no harm in keeping you company," said the Brandybuck.

"It's good to see that your adventures haven't robbed you of your appetite, young Master Brandybuck," said Gimli.

"Your adventures didn't make you lose your appetites," Merry pointed out. "Why should our appetites be any different? Besides, hobbits have the best appetites."

"And we certainly never say 'no' to meals," said Pippin. "I really don't mind if we had to eat all day long. Come now! Lunch awaits!"

"You sound like my mother," said Logan.

"Do you even remember your mother?" asked Legolas.

"No, but I expect she would sound something like this," said Logan. "Doesn't your mother ever tell you to hurry up and eat your food?"

"No," said Legolas with a wistful smile. "Then again, I was never too selective about my food and I would always eat it quickly. There was always so much for a child to do and I, not having the patience to do one thing at a time, insisted on doing everything at once. My mother was always telling me to slow down."

"I am glad to know that I am not the only one who thinks you behave as if you are on fire and need to get away from it," said Gimli.

"Oh, no, my friend," said the elf. "I have already slowed down considerably, for your sake."

"Really? What about when we were running after the orcs across the Plains of Rohan?" asked Boromir. "As I recall, you were but a speck in the distance and always telling us mere mortals to hurry up."

"I am not to blame if you are extraordinarily slow," said the elf with a grin. "And now, I shall have to tell you to hasten along once more. I am certain I am not the only one who has need of nourishment."

"While that's all very nice," said Logan, "I think we might have to invite someone else to come along with us. Just give me one minute."

"Who are you inviting?" asked Pippin.

"My brother."

"But you do not enjoy his company," said Aragorn, looking confused as to why Logan would want to do such a thing.

"That's true, but I'll be damned if I leave him to his own devices," said Logan. "I don't trust him."

* * *

Logan was surprised that Victor agreed to come without a fuss. In fact, his brother had given him one of those unpleasant toothy grins, which, admittedly, was not always a good sign. Still, with the Wolverine keeping an eye on him, things could not possibly go that badly.

"There are no fresh vegetables," said Merry ruefully, "but there are a lot of dried meat and fruit."

"And the bread's a little stale but as toast, it will taste fine," added Pippin. "Besides, we found the most important thing."

"What is that, pray tell?" said Gimli.

"Beer!" cried Pippin. "It's not a brew that can be compared with the Green Dragon's, of course, but no beer can compare to the Green Dragon's, unless it's Butterbur's."

"Butterbur had the best beer I'd ever tasted," said Logan.

"You drink cheap beer," said Victor. "I'd think that most beer is better than the beer you usually drink."

"I do not drink cheap beer," said Logan. "Budweiser is...affordable."

"Cheap," reiterated Victor. "It's glorified, carbonated water." Pippin made a face at that.

"I would not drink that," said the Took.

"He's exaggerating!" protested Logan. "If it was just glorified water, then I'd get it from the tap, but I can't. Besides, some people like it because it doesn't taste so bitter."

"Ah, but the bitterness is part of the reason why we enjoy beer," said Merry. "It leaves a clear sweetness at the back of your throat after you swallow it."

"I know that," said Logan. "I never said I liked those un-bitter beers."

"But you pay for it," pointed out Pippin. "Why would you pay for something you didn't like? Ah, here we are!"

They were in a large round stone chamber filled with baskets, dusty jars, and large wooden barrels. Light came in from narrow windows cut high up in the curved wall. It filtered down in distinct shafts, illuminating the motes of dust floating in the air. There were some smaller barrels in the corner, and they were the things which interested Gimli and Aragorn the most. "I am not dreaming, am I?" asked the dwarf.

"If you are dreaming, then we are having the same dream," said Aragorn. He sniffed with much appreciation. "I have not smelled such fine weed in a long time."

"It is divine!" breathed Gimli.

"It is foul and I do not understand why men and dwarves and hobbits poison themselves with the smoke of burning leaves," said Legolas, wrinkling his nose.

"It does not appeal to me either," said Boromir. "The scent is too strong."

"Then we shall ensure that you never get so much as a whiff of our smoke," said Gimli without turning back to look at them. He and Aragorn were too busy examining the contents of the pipeweed barrels. "Why waste perfectly good smoke on people who do not appreciate it?"

* * *

**A/N: **I'm afraid my plot bunny wasn't very cooperative this week and we didn't get to do much with Victor's evil plans, but we'll get there sometime in the near future, I hope. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and that you didn't mind the overwhelming amount of dialogue.


	37. Party Plans

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything that you recognize. It all belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien, New Line Cinema, Marvel Comics and 20th Century Fox. I'm just borrowing the characters.

**Ambagurl: **Here's the update. :) I'm not sure about adding Scott because he's so powerful that he can easily upset the balance.

**Partypony: **We'll just have to see what happens with Logan and the palantir. He won't forget it in a jiffy, but Pippin needs his share of the action too. Logan's already stolen his part by picking up the stone. ;) I'm not sure if Legolas can drink Logan under the table. Logan has pretty good metabolism.

_Thank you for all the wonderful reviews. I really appreciate them. If you haven't gotten a reply by now, I must have accidentally missed you and I'm sorry if I did. _

**Chapter 37: Party Plans **

It was good beer. Logan took another appreciative draught. The hobbits had insisted on making the 'big folk' —which, strangely enough, included Gimli— sit to one side whilst they went about making lunch. A few slices of bread were suspended on sticks above the fire, and Merry was going about cutting up salted pork and arranging a platter of dried fruit.

The wooden table they were sitting at was so old that Logan was pretty sure that it was beginning to fossilize. It didn't smell the same as other wooden tables; no varnish, no stains. Not even the scent of resin was that strong anymore. However, there were deep gouges, as if someone had tried to use the table as the lower part of a guillotine. He took a deeper sniff. Yes, that was definitely the scent of old blood. Not a lot, though, so the orcs couldn't have used this too many times. He knew something about them now and from what he had observed, he doubted that they were tidy eaters. And they definitely looked like they would have no problem scoffing down a raw pig. Live.

"You know what I really miss?" said Pippin as he stared into the fire, watching the bread turn brown. "I miss my ma's fruit loaf, and her stew, and her...well, I miss everything about her. She is the best cook in the whole of the Shire, you know."

"Hardly," said Merry. "You know that you Tooks love to experiment. I remember once or twice when said experiments went awfully wrong and everyone had to grin and force it down."

"That's not true and you know it, Merry," said Pippin. He took the browned bread off their sticks and set them on a large plate already piled high with toast. "Those experiments were novel and interesting. I'm sure that if we had to eat it again, people would have gotten used to it soon enough."

"Brandybucks, on the other hand, prefer traditional recipes which always taste good," said Merry.

"Where's your sense of adventure?" asked Pippin. "I swear, Merry, you get more staid and boring by the day." Merry threw a piece of dried apple at his younger cousin.

"You keep saying that, and you will be in big trouble, young hobbit," he scolded.

"And because you are so staid and boring," continued Pippin, completely unperturbed, "_I_ was the one who thought of the brilliant plan to help everyone else. Admit it; my more adventurous Tookish nature saved us."

"_You_ wanted to go back to the Shire, if I remember correctly," said Merry. "Was that part of your adventurous Tookish nature?"

"Even Tooks get tired of adventures sometimes," said Pippin, "and besides, the main thing is that I didn't go back and I stayed to think of that brilliant plan."

"Will you ever stop mentioning it?" demanded Merry. "Everyone is grateful, I'm sure, but you don't need to keep reminding us seven times a day. Unlike meals, such reminders are not necessary."

"But they are! Otherwise, you would forget it."

Ah, how Logan had missed these hobbits. Even in such dark times, they could still find a way to lighten everyone's spirits. While many people might overlook them because of their size and their light-hearted nature, the Wolverine was of the opinion that theirs was a special and essential gift for these days when there was hardly anything to smile about.

"I assure you that _I _will never forget what you have done, Pippin," said Legolas. "And elves have long memories."

"I ain't gonna forget either," said Logan, "if you would tell me what happened, that is." Pippin gave him a dejected look.

"You didn't even _know_?" said the Took with mock disappointment. Actually, it was hard to tell whether he was pretending or whether he was being sincere. "See, Merry? I have to talk about it."

"Fine, but just this once, Peregrin Took," said the slightly older hobbit. "Humility is a virtue."

"I like to talk, but I do not boast without reason," said the Took, crossing his arms. "Anyway, I think everyone deserves to know what happened. You can help me tell the story if you want, Merry, although you are not a very good storyteller. Frodo is so much better..." He trailed off as he thought of his cousin and Sam. Who knew where they were now? The whole company fell silent. The only thing that could be heard was the crackling of the fire.

"So...uh...you were gonna tell us what happened?" said Logan after a while. Tense silences were the very worst sort of silences. Besides, he didn't want to think of all the possible scenarios concerning what had befallen Frodo and Sam. He really wanted to believe that they were safe and getting closer to ending their quest with each step, but really, the chances of that actually being true were very slim. Mordor was so far away, and they were two defenceless hobbits. Sam was as brave as any warrior, but his skill was sorely lacking, and who knew what was out there? No, no, that was too depressing. "I'm getting impatient for the story, and, if you don't mind, I like my toast brown, not black..."

"Oh! The toast is burning!" cried Pippin, rushing to tend to the smoking slices of bread. "What a waste. Well, there is plenty where this came from." He discarded the blackened slices and then impaled new pieces of bread on the sticks. "There," he said. "And if it starts burning and I'm too busy telling the story, you will tell me, won't you?"

"Of course," said Aragorn. "It would be a shame to waste more bread."

"It's stale bread," Logan pointed out.

"It is still food," said the ranger firmly, "and in such times, it would be a crime to waste anything that can be eaten."

"Man, I wish you could see my world," said Logan. He downed the last of his beer, all the while entertaining that strange image of Aragorn in New York, perhaps eating fast food. "Maybe you'll have as much of a culture shock as I did."

* * *

Pippin told them, in great detail, about everything which he could remember after he and Merry had been captured by orcs. Of course, Merry added many details of his own, and sometimes, these details conflicted with those offered by his younger cousin, especially when they came to the part about the heights of the two hobbits before they had consumed something called 'Ent draught'.

"Honestly, Merry, I've always been taller than you!" said Pippin in exasperation. "Don't you remember? That's what everyone said." He put salted pork on another slice of toast and took a large bite as if to stave off his frustration.

"Everyone must have been rather quiet about it because I never heard anybody say it," said Merry. "I have always been taller than you! If you don't believe me, we can measure each other now."

"What's the point?" asked Pippin. "You drank a lot more Ent draught than I did."

"I did not! You started drinking it first, without letting me know!" said Merry. "Otherwise, the difference between our heights would be more obvious right now."

"The important thing is that you are both tall now," said Gimli. "And no, unlike certain persons, any condescension was not deliberate."

"Who can be so rude as to be condescending deliberately?" said Legolas. He raised his mug of beer in a salute to Gimli when the dwarf glowered at him. "Oh, come. You cannot deny that you find it entertaining."

"Only when I'm not the one you're being condescending to," said Logan, interrupting the conversation.

"Thank you very much, Master Logan, for showing me who is on my side and who is definitely _not,_" said Gimli. "Now I know who I have to make gifts for on their birthdays." It was meant as a jest, but the Wolverine became sombre. He quietly nursed his beer and didn't reply, even though everyone else was waiting for him to make a witty response.

"Is everything well, Logan?" asked Boromir.

"Yeah," said Logan. "It's nothing. I just don't celebrate my birthday, that's all."

"But why not?" asked Pippin, aghast that there were people who didn't celebrate their own birthdays.

"Birthdays should always be celebrated!" added Merry. "You only ever get to be a certain age for a year, even if you do stay young and live forever."

"What's to celebrate?" said Logan. "I mean, I don't even remember when my birthday is, so celebratin' would be a bit pointless, don't you think?"

"Celebrations are never pointless," said Legolas. "You should simply pick a day. The exact date is of no importance. The only important thing is that you should remind people that they should be glad that you exist and that you are here among them."

"And I'll also remind myself of how much I've forgotten," said Logan. "That's somethin' I'd rather not remember. I mean, the fact that I've lost my memory, not what I've lost. I wouldn't mind remembering that."

"Have you also forgotten that you are also beginning to remember?" said Aragorn. "Maybe it has not happened as often lately, since you have not had many chances, but in Lothlorien, you woke us up often enough with your nightmares about the past. It will not remain lost to you forever."

"So pick a day, preferably soon, so we can throw you a party!" finished Pippin. "You might not have noticed, but we hobbits love parties."

"Who doesn't like a good party?" asked Merry.

Logan wasn't so sure that having a birthday party for him was such a good idea. While he didn't mind being in the centre of attention —and sometimes revelled in it—, celebrating becoming older was...well, it was depressing in the sense that it reminded him that he was always going to be the same while everyone around him actually grew older and would one day be gone. However, his friends were so insistent and they were so enthusiastic about the whole project that he eventually agreed to let them throw him a party after the war was won. He was _not_ going to even consider the possibility that they were going to lose. "Just promise me one thing," he said. "Don't put one hundred and sixty candles on my cake."

"Why not?" asked Merry. "We put one hundred and eleven candles on Bilbo's cake. Forty nine more candles isn't much of a difference."

* * *

The ride back to Edoras took much longer than the journey to Isengard from Helm's Deep, for the very simple reason that Edoras was just further away. All of the men were eager to get back. While these people were not hung up on hygiene the way people of Logan's world were, even they were beginning to long for soap and hot baths. The only consolation was that the women and children were safely back in the city, and no doubt Éowyn would be preparing for the victory feast. That, at least, was something to look forward to. There was, however, a bitter taste to their victory, and the feast would only highlight that bitterness. Inside the great hall of Meduseld, it would be impossible to not notice who was missing from their company. Brave warriors had fallen. Young boys. Women who had given everything they could; their children, their wealth, even their lives.

Speaking of women, Logan's thoughts inevitably wandered to the peaceful valley of Rivendell, where Sidhien was right now. Was she thinking of him the way he was thinking of her? He didn't know when he would see her again, but whenever it was, he hoped it would come soon. And then, who knew? He had no idea if her parents approved, or if they even knew. Family was important and the last thing he wanted to do was to force her to choose between him and her family. Still, their relationship deserved a chance, especially since Berenon had given them his permission. Her parents couldn't be that hard to win over, could they?

The only good thing about the long journey through the creepy damp forest full of strange woody noises was that there was plenty of time to think. The rational side of Logan knew that these trees would not harm him if he did not provoke them. He tried to let that part of his personality take over for the duration of their journey; otherwise, he surmised that he would be a mess, always looking out for any potential threats. No better than his nervous nag, really.

The journey took days. Whenever they could, they tried to find clearings in which they could set up camp. It felt better to be able to see the sky, even if it was cloudy and none of the stars could be seen. The only two people who did not mind the forest were Legolas and Gandalf. In fact, one could say that the former revelled in being here amongst the murderous trees. Logan had already concluded long ago that elves were strange creatures. The elven prince was only reinforcing that truth. Wait...what if Sidhien also loved murderous trees? No, no. She had seemed much too normal to like these things.

Wasn't she?

* * *

Edoras was abuzz with activity as people resettled into their homes. The king and his returning warriors were greeted with cheers and much fanfare. Éowyn, in all her glory, was waiting for them on the steps of Meduseld. There was a thin gold circlet carefully set on her head, proclaiming her status as a lady of the royal house. In front of him, Logan could see Éomer almost puff up with pride for his sister. Despite his intense disapproval of female warriors, being an older brother meant that he could not help but be impressed by what Éowyn had achieved. Logan couldn't blame him. He was rather proud of her himself, having been the only man who had encouraged her —sort of— to fight. It wasn't often that he got to inspire people.

Once inside, however, the men were quickly herded off by serving women in the direction of the baths. Noblemen, of course, were allowed to bathe in private if they wished, not that these hardened military commanders would even think of getting special treatment. No, they were one of the men, as far as they were concerned, and those big buckets of steaming water in the large stone communal bathing chamber were good enough for them. Only Victor had declined. Logan briefly wondered if he would even bother to clean himself up, and then forgot all about him. He had his own problems, mainly to do with clothing. The ones he was wearing at the present had to be washed, but what would he wear afterwards? He doubted anyone would condone running around in Edoras wearing nothing but a towel. There was only one person to ask.

"Milady?" he said to Éowyn. "I...uh...kinda need some help."

"Of course, Master Logan," said the Shieldmaiden. "You only need to ask."

"My clothes need washing, but I...uh...don't have anything else to wear, and I don't think your uncle would like it if I just wore a towel."

"My uncle may not like it but I think the maidens of Edoras would be secretly pleased," said Éowyn with a mischievous grin. Logan simply gawked at her. She had just made a joke! It was uncharacteristic. "Oh, you need not worry," continued the lady. She seemed to be in an extraordinarily good mood. "The maidens of Edoras will simply have to be disappointed. Go to the laundry women. They will wash your clothes for you and also there should be some spare garments for you to borrow. We always have clothing for guests."

* * *

Logan stepped inside the chamber with only a 'towel' wrapped around him. In Rohirrim terms, a towel was a piece of not very absorbent linen. He had dropped off his dirty clothes with the laundry women and they had loaned him a few spare garments in return. The clothes were a little tight, but beggars could not be choosers. Logan was just glad not to have to go around naked or wear wet clothes.

Most of the men were already there, including his friends. And by men, he really meant humanoid males, since Gimli and Legolas had decided that there was no point in them expressing their solidarity. They were also completely comfortable about the physical differences. In fact, no one was gawking, which would be what would have happened if this scene had happened back in Logan's own world.

These were not people who were shy about their bodies. Nor did they have any cause to be shy. Battle scars were being compared and the warriors were sharing stories about their exploits. Typical soldiers, really. Everyone had stories carved into their skin, even immortal royalty. There was only one exception, not that anyone asked. They knew what the Wolverine was and what he was capable of. Just because he didn't have a written record did not mean that his deeds did not exist.

He quickly discarded the towel and commandeered a bucket of hot water before it was all used up and then snatched the soap from Gimli. "I was not finished with that, lad!" protested the dwarf.

"You're covered in suds already!" said Logan as he poured water over himself began rubbing the rough soap —which smelled like lard— all over his body. It didn't create much foam, unlike the soap at home, but it would do. He was barely finished soaping himself before someone else deprived him of the soap.

"That soap was mine," said Aragorn. "You jumped queue."

"I was not under the impression that you knew about soap," teased Legolas, causing the ranger to throw the bar of soap at him. He would have caught it if it hadn't been so slippery. As it was, the soap sailed out of his hand and hit someone in the back of the head.

"Apologies, my friend!" called Aragorn.

"Apology accepted!" Well, it just had to be Éomer. "I needed that soap, at any rate. One would think that after fighting for our country's survival, a warrior should not need to fight for soap. Unfortunately, in times of war, such commodities become luxuries."

"I'd say!" said Logan as he grabbed a handful of clean sand from a nearby bucket and proceeded to scrub himself with it. The Rohirrim, it seemed, had no sponges. Oh well, he could deal with it. He'd washed himself with sand before when he had been living in his truck in the wild. And it wasn't even fine sand like this.

He dumped another bucket of water over himself to rinse off the soap and sand. There; much better. At least he didn't reek of orc anymore. As he sloshed water over himself, an image flashed before his eyes. A forgotten memory.

"Why the hell was I jumping down a waterfall naked?" he asked out loud. Everyone stopped what they were doing and turned to look at him. Whoops. That should not have been a public announcement.

"I don't know," said Boromir. "You tell me."

* * *

It took a bit of explaining, but Logan finally convinced them that he had no idea why he had leapt down naked into a waterfall; he had just done it. Such an explanation probably did nothing to convince the others that he was not insane, but it was the best he could do. He rubbed his chin. Hmm, while he was at it, he could do with a shave. There were no razors, but that didn't matter. His claws were good enough. "Hey, can I have the soap back? I need a shave!"

"Save yourself the trouble and grow a beard like Gandalf's, Logan," suggested Legolas.

"Says the kid who doesn't even have facial hair," said Logan. "Or...much body hair, for that matter." He had known that the elf was in excellent shape, but right now, with water gleaming on his pale skin, the first thing that came to mind when Logan tried to compare him to something was Michelangelo's David, except more perfect, if anything could be better than perfect. Well defined muscles, the correct proportions. The only 'flaws' were a few thin scars from old wounds. Maybe even ancient wounds. However, they only reminded them of the fact that Legolas was not ornamental; the elven prince was also a killing machine when he needed to be. For someone who had such a pretty face, the elf had a very masculine body; one which any Hollywood star would envy.

"And you, Logan, on the other hand, almost have enough body hair to rival a dwarf," retorted Legolas.

"I should take that as a compliment, shouldn't I?" said Logan.

"Most definitely," said Gimli. He had already finished bathing and was now rubbing himself dry with one of those inefficient towels. The end result was laughter inducing, although no one actually dared to laugh out loud for fear of offending the dwarf. They had all seen what he was capable of doing and no one wanted to be on his bad side. His red hair was sticking up in every direction, making him look something like an exotic caterpillar. "Body hair is a sign of masculinity, lad. Mark my words; the ladies will be impressed."

"Dwarf ladies, perhaps," said Legolas. "Elves and Men differ somewhat from dwarves in that respect."

"Not necessarily," said the dwarf smugly. "Lady Arwen fell for Aragorn here, and Logan managed to capture the heart of an elf maid, did he not?"

"You did?" said Éomer, turning to the Wolverine. "Well, I cannot say that I am surprised. I have seen the way our women regard you, Master Logan, and I suspect that elven women also know a fine man when they see one."

"I am not certain it was his appearance that charmed her," said Aragorn with a grin.

"Hey, it only means I've also got a great personality as well as my looks," said Logan amidst a chorus of cheers and whistles.

"However, you seem to be rather lacking humility," said Boromir.

"Well, a man can't be perfect," said Logan. "I'm only human." A man could always dream.

* * *

It was impossible. How was he to get near the heir of Isildur when Logan was always with him? While Victor might be more skilled, he knew that his brother was more than a match for him with those adamantium claws. If only he could somehow get Logan away...

Wait, what about the feast? Was there not going to be drinking? How much alcohol did it take to get the Wolverine drunk? Was it even possible? Victor had never been intoxicated in his life and his brother had an even faster metabolism. Was there anything stronger than mead in this place?

Well, if conventional methods were not going to work, he was going to have to resort to the unconventional ones. Saruman might be many things, but no one could deny that he was prepared for every possible eventuality. Well, almost every possible eventuality. While the others had been busy eating, Victor had gone to the lesser known storage chambers in Isengard, where the wizard kept some of his most dangerous and prized resources. This covert way of killing was not Victor's preferred method, but what other choice did he have? His claws were not going to be enough. So what if there was going to be a lot of collateral damage? The ends always justified the means. Always.

* * *

Great long trestle tables had been set up. Barrels of ale and mead lined the sides of the room. The aromas of alcohol and cooking food were overwhelming. Man, he wanted a drink. The Rohirrim might be primitive, but they had some of the best beer Logan had ever tasted. Of course, whenever he tried to set foot inside the great hall in order to inconspicuously make off with a mug of the heavenly brew, he would inevitably be caught before he could even reach the barrels and the duly shooed out, just like the other warriors. Apparently, he wasn't the only one pining for a drink.

"There is no point in even trying," said Éomer when Logan asked him about it. "The women know how to deal with us. This is almost tradition at every feast's preparation."

"They're just going to starve us until sundown?" demanded Logan.

"Not starve us, but they are going to make sure that we are hungry enough to eat an entire pig each," said the horselord. "All we men can do is wait. At times like these, we are at the mercy of our womenfolk. Only the king can get past them, and perhaps your charming elven friend."

"Legolas doesn't even like ale," said Logan.

"That might be one of the reasons why he is allowed to go inside," said Éomer. "The women want to ensure that the ale is not gone before the feast has started."

* * *

Things were going as smoothly as can be expected, considering they had just finished winning the first battle in what could be a painfully drawn out war. Éowyn was constantly on the move, telling the servants where to put tables and barrels and overseeing the cooking, although, truth be told, she had very little idea about what was going on in the kitchen. Having tasted her own stew, she had concluded that while she might be able to accomplish many things, mastering culinary arts was something that she would never be able to achieve. Maybe it was a family trait. Her mother had not been a very good cook either.

Some of the men had volunteered to help her move the barrels of ale and mead from the cellar into the hall, but she had only accepted help from a few of them, mainly because most of the men would probably take the chance to drain at least half the barrels. Her brother was one such man, and she had once made the mistake of trusting him with a barrel of honeyed mead. That had been when she had first taken over the task of preparing for feasts as the highest ranking lady in Rohan. Never again was she going to make that mistake.

As she emerged from the stuffily hot kitchen and rounded a corner, she caught sight of a huge man bending over the barrels stacked in the corridor, waiting to be moved. Instinct took over, and she peered around the corner cautiously, careful not to alert the man. He seemed to be putting something into the barrels. The only thing she could see was a white piece of linen, dwarfed in his large clawed hands. A feeling of dread settled in her stomach. What was he doing? And why did he seem to be so alert? She ducked back around the corner just as he looked up. Her sense of danger was heightened. This warranted investigation, but how? She didn't want to alarm the clawed man.

Well, there were a number of things she could do, although she needed help, just in case she got into trouble. Who better to help her with a man with claws than another man with claws?

* * *

**A/N: **That bath scene was completely unplanned. It just...happened. I guess they needed to take baths. ;) Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the chapter.


	38. Shattered Illusions

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything that you recognize. It belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien, New Line Cinema, Marvel and 20****th**** Century Fox. **

**Amba gurl: **In that case, maybe Scott could have a small part. Thanks for the idea. The plot bunnies are playing with it. :)

**crazyjedifrankhardy91: **Thank you. I'm glad I was able to make you laugh. Dialogue is so important to characterization.

**Partypony: **I'm glad you liked the bath scene. Éowyn does seem like the bossy type. She's a great role model.

_Thank you to all my lovely reviewers. I really appreciate any thoughts and comments you might have. If I somehow didn't reply to your review, it was an accident and I apologize if I have done it. _

**Chapter 37: Shattered Illusions**

He had the acute feeling that he was being watched. Victor straightened himself. There was no one in sight. However, there were definitely quick footsteps of someone who seemed to be running away from him. Had they seen him? He couldn't risk it. Any potential threat was to be eliminated; that was his way. The only time he hadn't been able to do that had been when that threat had been his brother. Victor could never quite bring himself to attack his brother without provocation, even though he knew that the Wolverine was probably one of the biggest threats to his ambition. Logan was dangerous. He knew that. And yet, he simply couldn't get the image of little Jimmy out of his mind. For a century, they had watched out for one another. Just because Logan had forgotten didn't mean that Victor had to forget it with him.

'Oh, stop being so sentimental,' he scolded himself. _Jimmy_ was the one who formed irrational emotional attachment to people. Victor was a pragmatist who always did what he set out to do because he never let anything stop him. It had always been this way. He strode down the corridor after whoever it was that had seen him. It wasn't Logan; of that he was certain. One, Logan's footsteps were not that light and two, Logan never ran from him. He usually just charged.

* * *

Éowyn knew that she was being followed. Her pursuer did not even bother to hide the fact that he was hunting her. Oh, she'd had quite enough of this. _Nobody_ was going to hunt her in her own family's halls! Hadn't Grima been enough? Well, this was much worse than Grima, she had to admit. For one, Grima did not have claws and he could not break someone's spine over his knee. 'Oh, for the love of the ancestors, stop panicking, Éowyn,' she told herself as she quickened her pace. All she really needed to do was get out of the corridor and find someone, preferably the other man with claws and who could also break spines over his knee.

It was with much relief that she emerged into the great hall. Victor had ceased to chase her, knowing that it would be futile to try and hunt with so many warriors watching. No doubt his brother would be nearby. The fact that he had tried to hunt her did confirm her suspicion. Whatever he had been doing, it had not been good. She caught sight of Gandalf speaking with her uncle. Well, the wizard was even better than Logan, the Shieldmaiden had to admit, and she wondered why she did not think of him in the first place. He was the obvious choice, being the White Wizard. She just wasn't so sure about approaching him. After all, his age and wisdom, not to mention his power, made him an intimidating figure. Still, she had to tell him. He would know what to do. "Milords, forgive me for interrupting," she said, curtseying.

"Ah, if it isn't the Shieldmaiden of Rohan herself!" said Gandalf. "Well, well, it seems that hobbits are not the only ones who can surprise me."

"You flatter me, milord," she said. How did one address the White Wizard? She knew that his friends called him by name, and the irreverent Logan called him 'the old fella', but she was neither a friend nor an equal, as her uncle was. The wizard chuckled.

"Oh, I am no lord, Lady Éowyn, and I should not be addressed as such," he said. "Just call me what everyone else does, and you know I answer to a multitude of names, although—" Here, he raised his voice. "—I draw the line at 'old fella'."

"You still answer to it!" called Logan from outside.

"I need to speak to you on some matters of importance...Gandalf," said Éowyn.

"Of course," said Gandalf, sensing that something was amiss. The frivolity left his face and he stared at her intently with wise grey eyes. "What worries you?"

"Can we speak outside?" she said. "I believe this concerns Master Logan as well." Her uncle opened his mouth to comment on the very strange statement, but then he thought better of it and remained silent as he and Gandalf followed her outside.

"Logan!" called Gandalf. The Wolverine was, well, believe it or not, entertaining young children. For all his gruffness, he was strangely gentle with them, rather like a doting father. "Can you come over here for a moment? There is something which we must discuss."

"It's not about me callin' you 'old fella', is it?" asked Logan, getting up from where he had been sitting on the steps. "Because if it really gets to you that much, I'll stop."

"No, no," said Gandalf. "I do not believe it is anything so trivial. As long as the nickname does not spread, you are welcome to call me whatever you want. I am not petty enough to care. Lady Éowyn?"

"I saw Master Victor down by the ale barrels," she said. "It might have been nothing, but when he realized that I had seen him, he tried to follow me. I think he is hiding something."

"Are you certain that he was not merely stealing ale?" asked Théoden.

"Victor does like his ale," said Logan with a shrug, "but would he just steal it from the barrel and not take the barrel?"

"Perhaps," said Éowyn. "I did not truly see what happened, but my heart tells me that I ought to be wary."

"Then you've got good instincts," said Logan, "not that I expected anything less from you, milady. I don't trust Victor either, and something tells me that there is more to it than just spiking the alcohol. He never does anything without reason, even if that reason is just provoking me."

"What are you suggesting, Logan?" asked Gandalf. "He is your brother after all, and you know him best out of all of us."

"We need to test that ale and make sure that there is something wrong with it before I go and confront him. And if it's just a prank, I'll think of some way to pay him back for it. If there's anything I've learned over the years, and especially in Middle Earth, then it's that things are never what they seem. Well, sometimes they are, but most of the time, there is more to it."

"I agree," said Théoden. "We should have proof before we start accusing anyone of anything. Should we let anyone else know? Lords Aragorn and Boromir, perhaps? And maybe Prince Legolas and Lord Gimli?"

"That goes without sayin', doesn't it? If Victor does react like a trapped cat, I might need their help."

"Forgive me," said Gandalf, "but I though wolverines were supposed to be more vicious than cats?"

"But this is a _big_ cat," said Logan in all seriousness.

"How big can a cat be?" asked the wizard.

"Oh, you'd be surprised," said Logan. "Trust me, you don't want to come face to face with one of those kitties."

"Oh, you can be assured that I will not," said Gandalf. "I do not like cats at the best of times. Their fur is irritating and it gets everywhere."

* * *

Boromir was genuinely outraged when Logan told them that there was a large chance that Victor had tried to poison them, and Gimli spent a good while spluttering expletives in his own tongue while Legolas turned white with rage and couldn't find anything princely to say, but Aragorn, on the other hand, did not seem surprised. "Did you never wonder why he always seemed so isolated and hostile?" he said when asked about his lack of shock. "He never wanted to be one of us. This was not something he thought of at the spur of the moment; he has been planning this for many days and I should have suspected him sooner."

"No, _I_ should have suspected him sooner," said Logan. "He was my brother. I knew him best out of the lot of you. Anyway, it doesn't matter who should have known. We all have a clue now, and we just have to make sure that he did put something into the ale. It would be stupid to confront him over nothing."

"You are right, of course," said Aragorn. "We need proof, not that I do not trust you, Lady Éowyn."

"I understand, milord," said Éowyn. "But how are we going to test for poison, short of making someone drink the ale."

"I could do it," said Logan. "Just a little bit won't kill me. My metabolism works fast enough...right, the word 'metabolism' doesn't feature in your vocab. I get it."

"No, Logan, you are not drinking it," said Aragorn. He turned to Théoden. "Would you happen to have any silver, milord?"

"I am a king, Lord Aragorn," said Théoden, "and while my kingdom might not be as wealthy as some others, I have a bit of silver. More than a bit."

"I just need one piece," said the ranger.

"What are you going to do with it?" said Legolas.

"It is something I learned during my travels in the east," said Aragorn. "Haradrim noblemen are prone to poisoning each other in their struggles for power and they use this method to make sure that their food is safe to eat. They would touch the food with silver, and if the silver turns black, it means that there is poison in it. It works well enough, since it is seldom that Haradrim noblemen die from poisoning."

"Smart," said Logan. "Yeah, that sounds way better than drinking it."

* * *

The metal turned black almost as soon as it touched the ale. "Right," said Logan through gritted teeth. "Mr. Creed has a lot of explaining to do. I'm going off to do a spot of questioning."

"Does 'questioning' involve claws?" asked Aragorn.

"What do you take me for?" asked Logan. "I might act like an idiot sometimes, but I'm not an idiot. Everyone knows that you don't kill a man before you interrogate him. That just ruins the whole purpose. Mind you, people have done stupider things before. Not me."

* * *

They weren't doing anything. Victor wasn't sure whether to be relieved or suspicious. Could he possibly have been mistaken about having been seen? If that was the case, then it would mean that he was losing his touch, and that was impossible. If anything, he had become even more alert ever since coming to Middle Earth. However, everything was just going too smoothly that even though he believed that his plan was workable, hardly dared to believe that he could just sail right through and go back to his master with Rohan and Gondor on a platter.

He stood in the shadows, watching the hapless peasants pass him without even suspecting what was going to befall them. If he had had a conscience, he might even have felt sorry for them.

* * *

He carried the two mugs to the great hall where Victor was standing to one side, scrutinizing the activity going on around him as if he was waiting for something to happen. "Hey there," Logan said as he approached him, hoping that it didn't sound too contrived.

"What are you doing here?" Victor asked. The Sabretooth narrowed his eyes.

"I got this from the barrels in the hallway and I thought that the two of us should have a drink," said Logan with a shrug. He held out one of the mugs to Victor. "I mean, I think we deserve it. Come on, I know we didn't really get off on the right foot, but we are brothers." Okay, that did sound a bit too cheesy for Logan's liking. "Ah, come on. You won't even have a drink with your own brother? We're on the same side here, or at least I hope we are, and I would never spike your drink, so don't worry."

"I'm not in the mood, Logan," said Victor.

"What, you really think there is something in the ale, don't you?" So much for subtlety. Logan was getting impatient. "Why would you think that?" He took a step closer. Any pretence at cordiality was gone. "Tell me, Victor. Is there something wrong with this ale?"

* * *

Logan had learned subtlety? All right, so his subtlety was completely unsubtle, but it was the attempt which surprised Victor more than anything. Middle Earth had changed his brother. "So?" said Logan. "You're gonna tell me something, aren't you? Aren't you?"

"What, are you interrogating me now, Jimmy?" taunted Victor. There was no point in even trying to hide it and the Sabretooth was not going to back down just like that and submit himself to whatever these mortals had prepared for him.

"I guess I am," said Logan through gritted teeth. "What did you put in this?" He threw the two mugs down in front of his brother. They shattered on the flagstones, splashing the foaming liquid everywhere. "Who are you workin' with, coz it sure as hell ain't us."

"Well, well, wouldn't you like to know," said Victor. He braced himself. Logan didn't disappoint him. The Wolverine leapt, claws brandished. Victor would have felt the full brunt of his brother's anger. However, since he had expected it, the Sabretooth had the time to feint to one side. Unfortunately, others seemed to know what was going on, and Logan was a lot more popular than he had seemed. Even worse, the wizard knew. Using his very brief advantageous moment, Victor flung Logan aside and then ripped one of the metal torch-holders from the wall and before Logan could react, rammed the sharp end into his ribs.

The Wolverine might be many things, but even he could be brought down by a well-aimed blow to the chest, if only temporarily. This slight lull was all Victor needed to push his way through the crowd. A few arrows flew in his direction. Ah, so they were prepared. One of those grazed his scalp. He snarled, more in anger than in pain, but he was not going to stay and exact revenge right now. For one, it would never work. There were too many to fight, and unlike Logan, he could be decapitated with common steel. The doors flew off their hinges as he crashed into them, and then he leapt down the stairs before vaulting on a horse —knocking off the rider in the process— and then galloping out of the gates of Edoras. By then, everyone was shouting, some in confusion, some in anger, and some in concern, for his hasty getaway plan had included a few injuries, although not nearly enough by his standards. If he'd had his way, some of the most important people in this ridiculous alliance of the so-called 'free' forces of Middle Earth would have been lying dead and his master would have won half the war. Did they really think that true freedom existed? They lived under the yoke of hierarchy and duty. What was so different about being a slave to their own kings than being a slave to the Dark Lord? In the end, they were still not free.

* * *

Logan groaned as he yanked out the torch from between his ribs. Damn Victor; this was a bloody painful mess, not to mention the borrowed clothes were completely ruined. His friends were crowded around him in concern and someone had already gone to get bandages, not that they would need it. They would, however, need to clean the floor. Logan was rather flattered that "How are you feeling?" asked Aragorn, ever the healer.

"I just got stabbed by my brother in the chest with a torch, the traitor got away and there is a chance that we won't have any ale for tonight," said Logan. "I guess we all know that the answer is 'not fine'." Yes, he was a bit cranky. Could anyone blame him? Not only had he been stabbed, but he'd also failed, and he wasn't going to get as much alcohol as he had thought he was.

"I am just glad you can still make acerbic comments," said Aragorn, hauling him to his feet.

"It'll take more than an iron torch and a Sabretooth to kill me," said Logan. "Wolverines are tougher than that."

"I guess we did prove his guilt, but that only creates more questions; questions which our friend was disinclined to answer," said Gandalf. "Perhaps the situation is more serious than I thought."

"What should we do, then?" said Boromir. "Should we ride after Victor and bring him back for questioning?"

"I dunno," said Logan. "I mean, if we want to, we can catch him, but I don't know if we can make him talk, and he's very good at escapin'. He escaped from Saruman. What if he went back to his master afterwards with information about us? I mean, we're already at a disadvantage with our numbers."

"But what if he knows something that is valuable to us?" said Éomer. "We could make a deal with him. We spare his life if he tells us."

"Victor values his freedom more than life," said Logan. "You'll have to let him go, and we will have no way of proving that what he tells us is the truth. Y'know, he might not have answered me, but there is only one person in Middle Earth who he would work for."

"Sauron," whispered Gandalf. "Yes, now that you say it, it is obvious. And he knows who Aragorn is. No, we must catch him, if only to prevent him from going back to Sauron. He already knows too much."

"Then what are we waiting for?" asked Gimli. "Let's go hunt a big cat!"

"Meow," said Logan.

* * *

Victor followed the Great West Road; anyone else would have stayed off the road, but it was the quickest way, and besides, there had to be other travellers. Not very many, but Victor had seen the fresh trail of a cart and smelled the scent of unwashed people. As soon as he was in Mordor, which would take a week or two, they would not be able to get him. Besides, his master was thinking of striking very soon. The others would have to turn their attentions to other things and he, Victor Creed, would be able to go on as he always had, commanding the troops of Mordor and knowing that this time, he was going to be on the winning side.

He heard hoof beats behind him. They were far away, but it was only a matter of time before they caught up with him. He hadn't had that much of a headstart. Victor dug his heels into the horse's sides, making the animals squeal and then surge forward. It wasn't the best horse the Rohirrim had had to offer and no doubt his pursuers would have fresher horses, maybe even replacements. Then again, Logan was one of the worst riders he had ever seen, so that might hold them back.

* * *

Logan gritted his teeth and tried not to think about how uncomfortable he was on horseback. This animal was slightly more friendly than 'The Nag', but it was still a horse, and it seemed to be in equine nature to not like him. Logan could bear a lot, but he was beginning to get rather sore. He found himself thinking about motorcycles and cars again. Forget the latest models; he'd be happy with one from the World War. What sort of man enjoyed bouncing around in a saddle? Well, except the Rohirrim and certain strange people like Boromir and Aragorn, who were also in the company, along with Legolas and Gimli, as well as Éomer, who was, technically, the leader.

At least they were getting closer. The scent of the Sabretooth was getting stronger, and although he had done his best to mask his trail in what little time he had, it wasn't enough to deter these skilled trackers. The road, however, was becoming rockier and according to people who knew horses, it was easy for one of them to become lame if a stone became stuck in a shoe and went undetected.

"I can't believe we're going to miss the victory feast, all because of my brother," said Logan.

"My uncle is holding it off for until we get back," said Éomer. "Capturing enemy spies take precedence over food and drinking games."

"I guess, but how are you gonna keep the food fresh?" asked Logan.

"Don't ask me. I have no knowledge whatsoever when it comes to what goes on in the kitchen," said Éomer. "Éowyn and I are very alike in that aspect."

Aragorn opened his mouth and seemed to be about to say something, but then he thought better of it and remained silent. However, that did not go unnoticed by Éomer, who found this to be rather amusing. "I guess you have tasted my sister's work," said the horselord.

"It was...interesting," said Aragorn.

"I am not a picky eater, but I would not touch Éowyn's cooking," stated Éomer flatly. "I love my sister, but there are some things that I would not trust her with. The state of my taste buds is one of them. Other than that, I cannot think of anything else I would not trust her with."

* * *

Victor knew that he could not outrun them, so he might as well not waste any more energy trying to. Besides, there were only a few of them this time, and while he might have to get away from Logan, the others were not a problem. He could deal with a few swordsmen; a few hundred was a different matter. He dismounted and waited. Soon enough, the riders came into sight. They surrounded him in a loose circle, pointing bared blades at him, or, in the elf's case, a nocked arrow.

"You cannot run from us, Victor Creed," said Éomer.

"Do I look like I'm runnin'?" said Victor. He curled his lip back to reveal his unnaturally long canines. It usually intimidated people when he did that. The horselord flinched slightly; it was almost undetectable, but Victor knew what to look for, and he could also smell the faintest hint of fear.

"Listen, Victor." That was Logan. He had dismounted. No fear was coming from him, but he was furious. Logan tended to be reckless when he was furious. Maybe he could use this to his advantage. "I know who you work for, and you have two choices; you can either come with us quietly and tell us what you know, or I can kill you."

"Do you even know how?" asked the Sabretooth.

"I'll see if decapitation works," said growled Logan.

"Would you really do that to your own brother?" Ah, a conscience was a curse, and Logan had too much of a conscience.

"You tried to hurt my friends and other innocent people," said Logan. "You're not my brother."

"So you say," said Victor. "But when it comes down to it, you won't do it. I know you, Logan. You had the chance, many years ago, and you didn't take it. I don't see why you're gonna take it now."

"Are you comin' with us, or are you gonna fight?" said Logan. The claws slowly came out, glinting in the pale sunlight. Victor pretended to focus on them, although his attention was on the situation at hand. At the very front of the company were Éomer and Logan. The Heir of Isildur was very close to the elf and dwarf. If Victor tried to attack him, he would probably get an arrow in the eye. However, the Gondorian was another matter. If he could attack with enough surprise, he might break through the ring and be able to escape. No doubt some of them would stay behind to tend to their wounded companion who, if Victor did this correctly, would have no chance for survival. That way, his chance for escaping would be greatly increased. It was the best plan; the only plan. What other choice did he have?

"You have me there," he said, shaking his head. And then he pounced.

* * *

**A/N: **I hope you enjoyed the chapter. I know it's short, but I've come down with something and my brain isn't working properly.


	39. Sibling Rivalry

****

It's an Odd Coincidence

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything that you recognize. It all belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien, New Line Cinema, Marvel and 20th Century Fox. **

**Redone: **We'll just have to wait and see. ;) Boromir's fate is not sealed.

**Vballmania23: **I won't spoil it for you by answering directly ;). I'm glad you liked that line. Logan is one of the few people who can more or less deal with Victor, although he isn't that successful sometimes.

**Vanime18431: **Thank you very much. I'm glad you're enjoying the story. Indeed, I love my evil cliffhangers. :D

**Amba gurl: **Scott doesn't seem to be the guy who would laugh with Logan —he did laugh _at_ Logan during happier times. Even if he does feature, I think the most I can do is a cameo.

**Partypony: **Victor likes to ruin things. :P He's more destructive than constructive. As mentioned before, I love my cliffies, and so do the plot bunnies. *pats bunny*

_A big thank you to everyone who reviewed. As always, if I haven't replied to your review, it's because I've accidentally overlooked it, and I apologize if that's happened. _

**Chapter 39: Sibling Rivalry**

It was almost unexpected, but Logan had learned long ago not to trust Victor, and he had become suspicious the moment his brother seemed to have given up. So when Victor pounced, so did he. The two mutants crashed into each other and fell to the ground. The horses, spooked by all this sudden and violent action, tried to flee from the scene. In fact, Logan's horse would have succeeded in doing so had Éomer not reacted quickly enough and snagged the reins of the terrified animals.

The two brothers rolled apart and leapt to their feet. They were streaked with dirt and sweat. For them, no one else existed except the other brother. Logan lunged before Victor could. His claws grazed the Sabretooth's arm, making the other snarl, more in anger than in pain, for the shallow cuts healed in seconds, leaving nothing but three tears in his sleeve. Logan, however, did not give his brother a chance to recover from the attack. He swiped out again and Victor had to lurch backwards to avoid getting his throat cut, or worse.

"You really wanna do this, Jimmy?" said the Sabretooth.

"Yeah, I really think I do," said Logan through tightly gritted teeth. Then he lashed out again. The two of them moved so quickly that it was almost impossible for the mortal eye to follow them. Victor managed to catch the side of Logan's neck, ripping huge tears with his claws, but even as they appeared, they healed over. There weren't even scars to mark where they had been. It was a fight to the death in which both combatants were not likely to die, unless, of course, Logan fulfilled his promise of decapitating his brother, but all doubted that the Wolverine would actually have the ruthless resolve to do it in the end. Logan had too much compassion.

"Should we..." whispered Legolas. The elf never once took his eyes off the battling pair. His arrow was ready and he would have let it loose had this not seemed to be something that he should not interfere with. It was more than just an attempt to capture an enemy spy. No, this was Logan's family business and he would be an intruder if he did anything.

"Not yet," said Aragorn, who seemed to agree with him. "Logan must do this on his own. Unless Victor looks as if he will get away, we do not move."

"But he tried to poison the king!" protested Éomer. "We cannot simply stand by and watch!"

"They are brothers, Lord Éomer," said Boromir, "and although I know little of it, there are unresolved issues between them. I think Logan deserves this chance for some form of resolution, would you not agree?"

"This is resolution?" said the horselord dubiously, but he seemed to see the reason in the argument, even if he was uncomfortable with it.

* * *

He was tiring, but his brother was relentless, driven on by rage which could not be quenched. It was as if something had possessed Logan —something more serious than usual, that was. Victor knew he had to end this, and soon. He had to get back to his master, with or without the head of Isildur's Heir. Preferably with, of course, but considering the circumstances, that was not likely. He would be lucky to return with his own head still attached to his neck. For one brief moment, he faltered. That was all the time Logan needed.

The claws came down and he impaled Victor's shoulder, effectively throwing him down and pinning him to the ground. Victor roared in anger and tried to throw his brother off, but with the claws still embedded in his flesh, his shoulder couldn't heal. He could not possibly attempt to free himself from Logan with one arm. "I ain't gonna kill you," growled the Wolverine. "You are gonna tell us everything and then maybe I'll end your miserable existence."

"You can't do it, Jimmy," taunted the Sabretooth breathlessly. "You and me both know it. You keep that animal inside you on a tight leash, never lettin' it free; after so long, I wouldn't be surprised if you've weaned it off blood."

"Better a vegetarian than a monster who delights in carnage," said Logan. He hauled Victor to his feet. "Either way, you're not gettin' outta my sight any time soon." He kept his claws in the Sabretooth's shoulder. He didn't want to have to be sadistic, but he knew that if he withdrew them, his brother would heal and there was every chance in the world that Victor would run again. Who knows? Maybe this time he would succeed, and all they had worked for would have been in vain. Logan wasn't going to risk it. For one, he really didn't want his friends to get hurt, and if there was one thing he was certain about, then it was that Victor meant them all harm.

* * *

"Did you find him?" That was the first thing that Éowyn uttered when she saw her brother. They were back much earlier than she had expected and she really didn't know what to make of it. On one hand, it was a relief that Victor Creed could not try anything like this again, at least not in Rohan. On the other hand, the Shieldmaiden wanted him to be brought to justice and if it happened to be the law of the Rohirrim law that Victor had to answer to, then so much the better.

Rohan was not a rich country and after everything they had been through in the last thirty years, they were only a few silver pieces short of destitute, as far as a kingdom was concerned. War took a heavy toll on those who farmed the land and used peaceful means to make a living. The lack of resources meant that they did not have the luxury of incarcerating anyone for a long period of time. To others, it might seem brutal, but for the Rohirrim, this was natural justice. Those who thought they were above the law paid with blood. Sometimes, they paid their debts on the battlefield in the frontline, but in this case, Éowyn doubted that Victor Creed would be offered such a choice.

"We found him," said Éomer. "Gandalf and the King are questioning him now."

* * *

Well, Gandalf was trying very hard to question Victor, but the Sabretooth was no Gollum. He wouldn't even give the wizard the satisfaction of hearing some inane babble from him, not that Gandalf thought that Victor was capable of babbling. He simply did not seem to be the type. He could see that Théoden was running out of patience, and the wizard could not blame him; even after having wandered this world for so long, the wizard was tempted to resort to more drastic measures in order to make the Sabretooth talk. However, Gandalf would never stoop so low. He would threaten, yes, but when it came down to it, he could not bring himself to harm to a chained man who was completely unable to defend himself. Then the wizard wondered whether the strength of this clawed brother would be able to snap the chains. Logan would make short work of them, for certain.

"I have all the time in the world, Victor," said Gandalf. "Surely you do not intend to spend eternity down here with an old man?"

"How much of an idiot do you take me for?" said Victor with a sneer. "You do not have time at all. I, on the other hand, can afford to wait."

Out of the corner of his eye, Gandalf saw Théoden tense. Victor was right; they didn't have time. The wizard knew that the Enemy was making his move, but what sort of move, he did not know, which was why it was important to make Victor talk. The Sabretooth, on the other hand, knew what the information he could give was worth, and he was not a generous man.

"You should go up," Gandalf advised the king, switching to the tongue of the Rohirrim so that Victor would not know what they were saying. This was nothing important, but if Gandalf guessed correctly, then the Sabretooth would feel uncomfortable about not understanding what was being said, and Gandalf needed Victor to be uncomfortable. "Your people will be waiting for you and this is your victory feast."

"They also expect to see you, Gandalf," said Théoden. "But my men cannot possibly keep him under control."

"I will be attending the feast," Gandalf assured him. "Send Logan down when you need me, and he can keep watch over this one."

* * *

"Why did he have to poison the _ale_, of all things?" Merry was distraught. There was no other way to describe it. "The ale!"

"We should just be thankful that he didn't poison all of it," said Pippin, looking forlornly at all the barrels of spoiled brew which were now piled outside Meduseld, waiting to be disposed of in the morning after the festivities. Logan understood how they felt, although his dark mood had more to do with the fact that he had not been able to stop such a thing from happening. If Éowyn hadn't seen Victor adding extra ingredients to the ale, then the scale of death would almost have rivalled that of the battle they'd just fought. Well, that was an exaggeration, but with some of their most prominent commanders gone, Middle Earth would have stood no chance against Mordor's onslaught.

"The important thing is that disaster was averted," said Boromir. Logan had been so deeply in thought that he had not heard the Gondorian approaching. It was as if his friend could read his mind. The Gondorian handed him a cup of mead. "Drink up. You deserve it."

"I just can't help but feel that I _should_ have known," said Logan. "I mean, he's my brother, and I've known him for so long! Damn that amnesia." He downed the contents of the cup in one go. The warmth of the liquor spread through him, improving his mood just a little bit. It was amazing what a little alcohol could do.

"You should not worry about that which has not come to pass," said Boromir. "And, if it would comfort you somewhat, this might be a blessing in disguise. Victor knows the Enemy's plans, or if he does not know anything, then at least he has some knowledge of it and that information will be immensely useful for the war."

"I guess," said Logan, "but I don't think Victor's gonna talk. I mean, he might be many things, but he ain't a coward."

"Wizards can be very persuasive," said Boromir. "Have some faith in Gandalf. He did come back from the dead, after all." The two men sat in amicable silence. The sun was setting behind Meduseld and it was almost time for the feast to begin. Logan could smell the cooking food. Lack of alcohol aside, everything seemed to be going well enough, considering the drama which had just taken place earlier that day. Speaking of alcohol, people were approaching the steps of Meduseld, carrying kegs of various sizes and rolling barrels...

"We wish to see the king!" shouted one of them.

Maybe they weren't going to run out of drink after all.

* * *

The Wolverine had heard of people donating foodstuffs and clothes and electronic appliances before, but this was the first time he had heard of donations of beer. Barrel after barrel passed through the doors of the Great Hall as he watched, amazed and dumbfounded at this show of patriotism and appreciation for the armed forces. This never happened back at home.

The people of Edoras, who had gotten wind of what had transpired, had unearthed their own stores of ale, carefully hidden within their homes, so that it could be shared amongst the warriors who had fought for them. "You deserve your ale," was what one old man had said. "It's all we can do for you after what you've done for us." Then he'd wagged a finger at Logan. "Just don't cause trouble afterwards. I was young once and I know what drink can do to a young man's head."

* * *

"I tell you, those orcs died because that ladder fell!"

"And that would not have happened if _I_ had not shot that rope!"

Indeed, Elves and Dwarves were both stubborn races and Legolas and Gimli represented that shared trait very well. Now that Victor was safely incarcerated and being interrogated, they had resumed arguing about who had won the competition. At this rate, they were never going to reach a conclusion and considering how long-living they both were, this could become the longest pointless debate the world had ever seen. Logan had no intention for listening to it for the rest of his life —or for the duration of his stay in Middle Earth. "Why don't you two just settle it with some other competition?" he asked. "I mean, you're never gonna actually reach an agreement this way."

"What sort of competition do you propose?" said Gimli. Logan wracked his brains for ideas. 'Paper, scissors, rock' was out of the question, considering how juvenile it was. Those two would see it as an insult. So was Poker, as cards did not seem to have been invented in this place. Coin-tossing didn't seem right. Hmm... Logan caught sight of another barrel of liquor being rolled out.

"A drinking game," said the Wolverine. "And, what the hell, I'll join in and if _I_ win, it means I win that other game for which I lost count."

"I will take that challenge," said Legolas.

"You're making the biggest mistakes of your immortal lives, lads," Gimli warned them with a grin. "We dwarves are hardy drinkers."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," said Logan. "You forget what I am."

Aragorn, who was watching the whole spectacle unfold with some amusement, shook his head. "While I might not be the oldest, I do sometimes feel that way," he said. "I shall go and prepare the willowbark tea. I doubt that you will be the only ones needing it."

* * *

Théoden raised his cup. The rest of them followed suit. The atmosphere in the hall, lit only by smoky torches was as sombre as that of a funeral. In fact, this was a funeral of sorts. Logan wouldn't have thought it strange if someone had handed out candles and declared a moment of silence. In fact, it would feel right. So many had fallen; so many deserving of a place in the annals of history, and yet only a few would make it. "We honour those who gave their lives in defence of this country!" said Théoden. "May they find peace and glory in the halls of their fathers, and may they watch us and guard us. All hail the victorious dead!"

Logan drank along with the rest of them. The beer was bitter, as it ought to be, but tonight, this bitterness had special significance. It reminded him of all the young lives which had been snuffed out. So many hopeful young boys had looked to him, believed in him, and now they lay cold beneath the earth. For some of them, their eyes had remained open, even in death. It was hard to forget their glass stares. He could only carry the memories with him; in a way, they gave him purpose. Young lives should not end so abruptly and it was his duty, as one who had been specially endowed, to make sure that it did not happen.

Cups were refilled, and this time, the king was toasting the surviving warriors, the commanders, and everyone else who had even played a part in securing this miraculous victory. By the time the toasts were over, and after Théoden had finished, others wanted to give toasts too, some people were already not entirely sober.

The food was brought out and set on the long trestle tables. There were no less than ten entire roasted sheep, complete with the head. Those who wanted mutton would cut off a piece for themselves, or numerous small pieces, in some cases, with their eating knives. Logan made do with a claw. The mutton was unseasoned and was supposed to be eaten with various herbs, which had been put into tiny bowls next to the meat. There were dozens of roasted birds which had been stuffed with eggs, baskets of crusty bread to be eaten with dripping, unsweetened yoghurt made from mares' milk, and, of course, numerous types of pungent cheeses. Vegetables were scarce, for they were not in season, but, to Merry and Pippin's utter delight, someone had taken the time to gather mushrooms. They had been stuffed with cheese, battered, and fried. Logan wasn't a big fan of fungi, but he had to admit that those smelled wonderful. Éowyn had to be commended for organizing such a feast in so little time. Logan hardly knew where to begin.

"If I were you, I would try a mushroom before they are all gone," said Gimli, helping himself to a generous portion of said mushrooms. Not so far away, the two hobbits were singing the cooks' praises and congratulating Éowyn for arranging such a rich feast in so little time. "And the mares' cheese is beautiful; it is like nothing I have tasted before. Maybe horses are good for something after all."

Logan piled his plate high with meat and cheese. "So, what about that drinking game?" asked Logan as he sliced through a haunch of mutton and then sprinkled some herbs over it. He wasn't familiar with the plants but they smelled all right, so they could not possibly taste that bad. As an afterthought, he added the tiniest helping of a wild and fibrous vegetable. One had to maintain the semblance of having adult tastes and the normal adults should not be avoiding their greens.

"I'm ready when you are, lad," said Gimli. "And I see you don't want to drink on an empty stomach."

"I'm hungry," said Logan. "Beer is mostly water and that does not keep me satisfied for very long."

"So you say," said Gimli with a wink. "But I will trust that you are too honest to make excuses."

"You'd better," said Logan, pretending to be offended. "Otherwise, I really will show you a thing or two."

"I hope we are still talking about drinking here." Legolas had appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, and unlike the two of them, his plate did not resemble a small mountain. "It seems that everyone has heard about the competition and they are excited about it. I think they would be terribly disappointed if we changed our plans now."

"_I'm_ definitely not changing the plans," said Logan. "Are you changing the plans?"

"Why would I?" said Legolas. "I am not going to lose."

"You seem very confident," said Gimli. "If I recall my father's tales correctly, that night when he and Master Baggins —Bilbo, that is— escaped from your father's dungeons, your steward and a captain had been inebriated by drink and thus unable to stop them."

"There are elves, and there are elves," said Legolas. "Some of us are better drinkers than others. Come. Éomer has already prepared everything. It would be a shame to keep him waiting."

Logan and Gimli followed Legolas to a table which had been set up near one of the side doors. From the smell, Logan knew it was rather close to the pits which had been dug specifically for the feast. A good idea, actually, since what went in had to come out sometime and liquid completed that cycle a lot more quickly than solids did. There were several barrels of ale stacked up against the wall and eighteen mugs had been filled, with another pile of mugs waiting.

The Wolverine took up the first of his six mugs. "Any rules I have to be aware of?"

"No pauses, no spills," said Éomer with a grin.

"No regurgitation either," said Gimli, raising his mug. "Cheers!"

Mug after mug went down. Logan lost count of how many he'd had. The alcohol had little effect on him. His metabolism dealt with all of that. It wasn't really a fair competition, since he obviously had an advantage, although the other two were doing very well at the moment. Gimli was gulping the ale down with gusto whilst Legolas poured it down his throat as if it was some foul-tasting but life-saving medicine. A small crowd had gathered around them to watch the show, and some of the men were making bets on who would win. From what he could hear above the sounds of loud laughter, singing hobbits, and his own swallowing, no one was betting on Legolas. That elf just didn't look like he could manage it. There was, however, quite a lot of money on the Wolverine himself.

The ale flowed and the three of them drank. Gimli started laughing loudly and spouting slurred nonsense, a sure sign of drunkenness, and yet he remained standing, albeit not very steadily. Logan, on the other hand, was also feeling the effects of too much drink, although his discomfort had very little to do with the amount of alcohol in his bloodstream and more to do with the amount of liquid he had consumed. However, he was used to it. Being in the army meant that he had to push himself to extremes, and this was hardly his first drinking game.

The mugs had formed mountains on the table by the time Gimli's knees finally gave away beneath him and the dwarf fell with a loud thud. There were groans from the crowd. Money and little baubles exchanged hands. "Maybe we should take a break," suggested Logan tentatively. "I mean, it shouldn't matter if all remaining contestants take a break together, right?"

"I do not see what is wrong with that," said Legolas. "Besides, I think I need some air."

"Me too," said Logan. The elf and the mutant headed straight for the door.

* * *

Victor heard the revelry going on above him in the hall. It was hard not to. He glanced at the White Wizard. Gandalf showed no sign of going anywhere. In fact, the wizard had remained in exactly the same position for the last three hours, sitting in a chair just outside Victor's cell, staring directly at the Sabretooth with unblinking grey eyes. It was uncanny how he could do that.

The mutant tried to focus on something else other than how bored and hungry he was. Being stuck in a dungeon while hearing the sounds of a great party going on just above him was no fun at all. He began to wish that he had not poisoned the ale. At least, that way, he would be drinking it. The Rohirrim might have been backward and an obstacle, but they did make very good beer.

The wizard finally moved when he heard footsteps coming down the hallway. "Ah, so you have finally deigned to grace us with your presence, Master Logan," he called.

"The king sent me," said Logan as he came into view. "Has he said anything?" He jerked his head in Victor's direction. Gandalf shook his head.

"Who won?" asked the wizard.

"Huh? Oh, you mean the drinking game. Legolas and I decided to call it a draw. We were drinking all the ale and everyone else wanted some, so we left it for them. Legolas didn't really like ale, anyway. Said he would have preferred some Darwinian wine, whatever that is."

"You mean 'Dorwinion'?" said the wizard. "Well, I can hardly blame him. Legolas has impeccable taste. I, on the other hand, am not as picky as he is, and I sincerely hope that there is some of that brew left for me."

"Of course," said Logan indignantly. "I believe Merry and Pippin even saved you some mushrooms. We weren't about to forget the White Wizard. All right, so Lady Éowyn had to remind us not to drink all the mead. It's even better than the beer, if that's possible." He settled himself in the wooden chair Gandalf had just vacated. "So, uh, if he does talk, do I just shout for someone to go and get you or what?"

"I have faith in your ability to manage the situation," said the wizard. "But if you do happen to need assistance then yes, you should shout." With that, Gandalf strode down the dark corridor, leaving Logan and Victor alone. For a while, the two brothers sat in silence and glared at each other. The only sound came from the celebrations above and the occasional sputter from the single dim torch in an iron bracket on the wall. At times, Victor tested his chains, if only to rattle Logan, and the Wolverine continually clenched and unclenched his fists, betraying his desire to go in and perform his own version of interrogation.

At last, it was Victor who broke the silence. "Are you just going to sit there and not talk to me for the whole night, Jimmy?" he asked.

"I sure as hell ain't got nuthin' to say to you," growled Logan.

"Funny, you just said something."

"Shut up, Victor."

"Aren't you even the least bit curious?" The Sabretooth grinned. His unnaturally sharp teeth gleamed in the torchlight. "I know what you want to know, and believe me, I have it all inside my head."

"But you're not gonna say anything, are you, so what's the point of even tryin'?" said Logan. "I ain't optimistic like Gandalf. You are beyond redemption; you and I both know that, and as far as I know, you don't care. You don't care if kids get their throats cut or their arms and legs chopped off. You don't care if people starve because their farms have been burned. You care about nothing except you and your stupid ambitions. But guess what, Victor? I'm not going to let you succeed."

"For someone who has nothing to say to me, that is quite a speech," said Victor. "But come on, Jimmy. Haven't you, even for one moment, thought about what life would be like if people feared you and obeyed your commands? They would never dare to look down on you again because you are at the top of the food chain. Wouldn't that be a good thing? You could do so much for the world with your power."

"You know what, Victor? For someone so smug, you're really insecure," said Logan. "I don't _need_ to prove that I'm at the top of the food chain because I know I'm there already. As for power, I wouldn't count on it too much. People gain it and lose it every day. I'd rather not become a monster for something that I probably won't even be able to keep. Besides, for all the good that I'd do with it, I would probably do more evil, and that's the same for you, Victor."

"Cut the philosophical crap," said Victor. "It doesn't suit you."

"Fine, let's get to the point then," said Logan. "What's Sauron planning?"

"You think _that_ is going to make me tell you?" said Victor with a laugh. "Your wizard spent the past five hours using every method he knew to get me to talk. What makes you think that your approach is going to work?"

"Gandalf's nice," said Logan. He extended his claws. "He doesn't believe in forceful persuasion. I do." He approached the bars of the cell. "You don't wanna test me."

"Oh, I really think I do," said Victor. His grin widened, making the hairs on the back of Logan's neck stand on their ends. With one impressive display of power, Victor ripped his chains off the wall and, before Logan could react, he'd pulled the bars of his cell apart.

* * *

**A/N: **I hope you enjoyed the chapter. A completely random note —this is the longest story I have ever written. I just realized. (Yes, I am tired and my head's going a bit funny.)


	40. End of an Era

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything!**

**Partypony: **Yikes! Victor would make short work of me. I won't leave the story hanging, I promise. I'm a bit too...obsessed. :P

**Amba gurl: **I think Gimli will soon realize that it wasn't really a fair competition. ;) He's pretty smart.

**Chapter 40: End of an Era**

Logan hadn't expected Victor to try and escape so soon after his first failed attempt. Maybe that was why Victor had done it, because it was so unexpected. Before the Wolverine could even react, the Sabretooth had sent the loose ends of one of his chains, with a brick still attached at the end, flying in his direction. The length of metal wrapped itself around Logan's neck and his air supply was abruptly cut off as Victor yanked on the chain to tighten it.

Blood rushed to his head and his heartbeat was so loud in his ears that he could hardly hear anything else. The prospect of death, and the innate need to survive, drove all coherent human thought from his mind. He struck out, not really knowing what he was doing. His body seemed to move of its own accord, completely out of his control. It was as if Logan was merely a spectator. The beast within had been unleashed. Victor was wrong. The beast had not been tamed; it had merely waited for Logan to let his guard down.

Sparks flew as his claws sliced through the chain around his neck. Air flooded back into his deprived lungs, but nothing could do anything to stop the animalistic rage coursing through him. His attacks were relentless, and so fast that Logan hardly knew what was going on. The beast wanted blood, and what the beast wanted, it got. It was too bad that the beast was not always in agreement with Logan.

There was a short cry, which was almost immediately cut off as hot liquid splashed onto his face. Then all of a sudden, the anger was gone and an acute sense of realization which he had never known. Never before in his whole life had his mind been so clear, and so troubled at the same time. His claws slowly slid back beneath his skin as he stared at his hands, and then at the body on the ground at his feet, lying in a pool of blood. He was vaguely aware that the guards were shouting; one of them had run off, no doubt to inform the king of the latest developments. Logan didn't look up. He didn't care enough. All that really mattered was the sight before him. He sank to his knees.

What had he done? 'You know what happened, Logan,' said a voice within his mind. 'The beast will always be a part of you, whether you ignore it or not.' The voice was not his own, but Victor's.

* * *

From amidst the guard's panicked and garbled report, Boromir learned that someone had died. It was unclear who the dead man was, although he was pretty sure that it was either Logan or Victor. He didn't stay behind to listen to more of it. Without a thought for what could happen if the Sabretooth had managed to kill his brother and escape, he rushed down into the dungeons, with the others on his heels. He needed to know. Logan had saved his life, and he had become more than just a comrade and someone whom Boromir respected. The troubles which the Fellowship had encountered had bound them together in ways they had not expected; they were like brothers.

He pushed open the heavy wooden door and charged in. His heart was beating loudly against his ribs, like the war drums of the Haradrim, as he looked about wildly. The first thing he could see was a lot of dark blood trickling over the floor, turning the cracks between the stones into miniscule rivers. As he followed the rivers of blood to the source —a headless body— he was relieved to find that the man kneeling beside it was his friend. He released a breath that he did not know he had been holding onto. Logan was alive, and there was not a deranged, bloodthirsty clawed man running about Edoras.

The Gondorian slowly approached the Wolverine, careful not to startle him. A myriad of thoughts passed through Boromir's mind, but his main concern was his friend's welfare. It could not have been easy for Logan. He knew the Wolverine, and Logan had too much heart. Boromir could empathize with that. While he might not have had a brother like Victor, and he was very grateful that Faramir was not a methodical bloodthirsty killer, he did have a slight idea of what it might feel like to lose a brother.

"Logan?" he said softly.

"I killed him," whispered the Wolverine. "He tried to kill me, so the beast killed him."

"You are not a beast, Logan," said Boromir. He placed a hand on Logan's shoulder, making the other man look up.

"No, you don't understand. I always knew that there was an animal deep down inside me. I tried to contain it, to ignore it, but it was always there, waiting to be unleashed," he said. "And when he tried to kill me, the beast came through. I lost control. I killed my own brother."

"That...that does not make you a beast, Logan. That beast is inside you, but it is not you. _You_ are the man who is seeking to contain it. The man who made a conscious decision not to indulge its lust for blood."

"No," said Logan. "It is a part of me, a part that I've always wanted to forget, and because I tried to forget, I let my guard down. Not anymore." The Wolverine stood. "I've learned my lesson. The man can't tame the beast, but the man can learn to use the beast to his own advantage." That sounded so ominous that several of the onlookers reached for their swords.

"What are you saying, Logan?" whispered Boromir.

"This..." said Logan, indicating the body of his brother. "This is what happens when I deny the existence of the beast. But if I accept it, then I perhaps can channel it in the right direction. Maybe...then, Victor will have left a legacy. He made a mistake, yes, but nobody deserves to die at the hands of their own brother and then be forgotten by the world."

Boromir really didn't have anything to say to that. He also felt that he didn't need to say anything. Instead, he gripped Logan's arm tightly, indicating that he had his support. Despite the strong face the Wolverine was putting on, he was going to need it. Logan nodded, showing that he understood. Then he turned to everyone else.

"If you don't mind," he said. "I just...really need some time."

"Of course," said Gandalf. "If you need anything, Logan..."

"I know," said the Wolverine. "And I know what you're thinking. I promise I won't go and do anything stupid. There are just some things that I need to take care of, and I'll be needing a few things."

"You only need to ask, Master Logan," said Théoden.

"Thank you."

* * *

Logan bound the shroud around Victor. He had tried his best to arrange his brother's body so that he could have some dignity in death. The chains lay to one side. No matter whether he believed in the afterlife or not, Logan was not going to let his brother go onto the next step as a prisoner. Victor hated to be trapped. The blood had been painstakingly cleaned off the stones, although the scent lingered.

"I guess that's the end of the Clawed Brothers," he murmured to the body within the shroud. "It's the end of an era. Once again, I'm going it alone, but you don't have to worry. I won't forget you. After all, despite everything, you're still my brother. No matter what happened between us in the past, what you've done to me and what I've done to you, you'll always be my brother. I'll admit that sometimes I didn't want to think of you as my brother, but what the hell, it's something that I can't change, and I'm not gonna try."

* * *

By the time Logan emerged from the dungeons, the festivities were over. He guessed that death would put an end to even the most raucous of celebrations. Only a few guards were present. Some of them dipped their heads at him as he passed to express their condolences. While he was embarrassed that they could see his vulnerability, he was grateful that they cared. He didn't even know them.

If all went according to plan, then they would have a very rushed funeral for his brother the next day. He just had to share this plan with the others, in case there were objections. He knew that the people of Rohan wanted to put this behind them. They hadn't been very fond of Victor, and the only reason they even cared was because of Logan. He was rather touched by that.

He rubbed his hand over his face. This whole business had left him drained, physically and mentally. He just really needed to sleep and put it aside for a couple of hours. Maybe things would look better after he'd had some rest, because they really looked awful right now. However, things had to get better, right? How many more unpleasant things could happen on this one night?

Logan made a detour to the well on his way back to the guest quarters. He needed water to get the worst of the blood off. The well was situated just outside the kitchen the bucket was sitting on the low stone wall. Logan dropped it into the dark depths.

However, as he was hauling the bucket up, he suddenly felt it, whatever it was. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand up, and his first instinct was to fight, even if he could not see what it was or where this feeling was coming from. He sniffed the air. Nothing. Mere moments later, he heard a shout coming from the direction of the guest quarters. A shout for help.

He ran, not caring how loud his footsteps were, almost crashing through a door in his haste. Just as well the hinges were well-oiled, or else there wouldn't have been much left of it except splinters. "What's going on?" as he caught sight of Aragorn and Legolas, who were also running in the direction of the shout.

"The enemy is here," said Aragorn breathlessly.

"How the hell did he get here?" demanded Logan, but he didn't bother waiting for an answer, not that the other two were going to give him one. The three of them burst into the room, which was basked in the eerie orange light coming from the orb in Pippin's hands. The hobbit's head was thrown back and his mouth was open in a silent scream of pain, while Merry watched on helplessly. It was so incomprehensible that for a moment, the three of them just stood there at the door, stunned.

Aragorn came to his senses quickly enough, and without a thought for his own personal safety, he darted forward and snatched the orb out of Pippin's hands. The hobbit crumpled to the ground in a shaking heap. Merry rushed to his cousin's side to try and comfort him, and Logan would have tried to do the same if something else had not caught his attention.

Almost as soon as the ranger's hands came into contact with the surface of the crystal, however, he collapsed onto his knees, and the light started to envelope him, as if something was trying to draw him into the crystal's centre.

Logan did the only thing he could think of. He lunged for Aragorn to try and knock that crystal out of his hands. At exactly the same time, Legolas made his move. Unfortunately, there was not that much room. The elf and the mutant fell down in a tangled heap as they tripped over one another. Or rather, Logan tripped and brought Legolas down with him. In the end, the effect was the same. However, they did manage to do what they had wanted to initially. As the two of them fell, they knocked Aragorn over, and the force of the impact dislodged the crystal from his hands. It fell to the ground with a loud thud. There, it rolled a few feet before someone —Gandalf— threw a cloth over it.

"What the hell was that?" asked Logan as he climbed to his feet.

"A seeing stone," said Aragorn, whose face was ashen. The ranger took a few deep breaths.

"And they are not trinkets to be played with!" said Gandalf. The anger in his voice could not hide the thinly-veiled worry. The wizard set aside the now wrapped-up crystal, confident that no one else would dare to touch it after everything that had just happened. He knelt over Pippin and placed a gnarled hand on the hobbit's forehead. Pippin's eyes were open in terror, but he didn't seem to be seeing anything that was happening in front of him. Instead, he seemed to be in a terrible trance, or else he was gripped by a fearsome disease which no one had heard of. Logan had seen similar symptoms in many a third-world country. Well, one that he remembered.

"What did you see, Pippin?" asked Gandalf gently. "What did you see? Pippin, answer me."

For a moment, the hobbit looked about frantically, as if he was trying to find the source of the voice. "Gandalf?" he whispered when he finally realized who was speaking to him. "The city was burning!"

"What city?" asked the wizard. "Peregrin, you must tell me."

"I...I don't know," said Pippin. "I just saw a dead tree in a courtyard of white stone. Everything was on fire."

"Minas Tirith," whispered Boromir. "I must warn my father!"

* * *

Nobody got anymore sleep that night. Logan simply had to make do with cup after cup of hot tea, because there was no way that he would be able to sleep now that there was information on the enemy's next step. He wanted to be a part of this, and he was pretty sure that he was supposed to be. Why else would he have ended up here? If he had learned one thing, then it was that none of this was an odd coincidence. Someone had wanted him in Middle Earth because whoever it was, they wanted him to change things.

"You cannot dissuade me from going, Gandalf," said Boromir. "As the son of the Steward and the Captain of the White Tower, it is my duty to fight alongside my people."

"No one is trying to dissuade you, Boromir," Gandalf assured him. "I am merely suggesting that you should not go alone."

"I would come," said Logan, "but I still need to..."

"Of course you must first lay your brother to rest, Logan," said Boromir. "And I would stay, but Gondor must be warned as soon as possible."

"Then I will come," said Aragorn. The ranger had been strangely quiet throughout the entire discussion. In fact, this was the first time he had said anything. Boromir glanced at him sharply, but he quickly schooled his face into neutrality, although not before Logan noticed it. He blinked and looked from Boromir to Aragorn. Was something going on between these two? For the most part, they had been perfectly amiable to one another, so why was he feeling this tension now, of all times? The two of them had the same goals, didn't they?

The Wolverine searched his tired mind to try and find something which would explain Boromir's strange reaction. Hmm...Boromir was an important man in Gondor, and Aragorn was...oh, that's right. He was descended from the old kings of Gondor, and he was supposed to become king again. Ah, so it was a political dispute; the type which Logan loathed because one, he always felt that they belonged in the domain of greasy politicians who did not have a shred of honesty inside them, and two, they were way too messy and complicated.

He couldn't deal with all of this right now; he really couldn't. He'd just killed his brother, for God's sake!

* * *

Deep down, Boromir knew that Aragorn had the right ride into Minas Tirith as a king. He had done more than enough service to Gondor as Thorongil, and Boromir owed him his life. By rights, Aragorn deserved Boromir's allegiance. But he couldn't simply let the ranger displace his father. It did not feel right; the line of Stewards had ruled Gondor for so long and defended it against the onslaught of Mordor. Why should they simply move aside for the Heir of Isildur, even if the man had shown his love for the kingdom?

And yet, he knew that it was right. It was the order of the world. But how could he just turn his back on his father? He couldn't. Family loyalties ran deeper than reason, especially when it was hardly an adequate reason. Was there anything Aragorn could achieve that his father could not? The loyal son within him could not let him say yes, even though the rational side of him knew that Aragorn had virtues that Denethor did not. Even after all these years, the ranger had hope.

Denethor had long since lost any dregs of hope that the west could prevail against the might of Mordor. He had lost too many men, and his own beloved wife had faded beneath Mordor's shadow until all the life which she had had when she had first married him had been leeched out of her. And he had been forced to watch her fade, knowing that there had been nothing he could have done to save her. Such a thing could not leave a man unscarred. Moreover, Denethor had lived with the knowledge that someday, another man would emerge to wrench Gondor from the hands of his line. Such knowledge embittered him, especially since he had lost so much while trying to defend Gondor. What had Aragorn lost? What had he done to make him deserve Gondor more than Denethor did? He had played a great role in saving Boromir's life, of course, and Boromir was willing to pay him back with his life, but to give him Gondor? No.

Then again, what if Aragorn could save Gondor? Did Boromir love Gondor enough to give it up if it meant that they would live to see another day? A brighter day? He could not deny that his father's rule was only leading to further decay. The people wanted a king, not a steward. They didn't want just any king, but _the_ king. And if the king's return could give them the strength to fight Mordor, then...

The more he thought about it, the more complicated he seemed to get. To swear allegiance to Aragorn was to betray his father, but to reject Aragorn's claim was to betray Gondor. Was there truly no third way? Well, unless he wanted to choose the path which Victor had chosen...and that was definitely not an option.

'Focus,' he told himself. Now was not the time to be thinking about such matters. Gondor needed to be saved first. Everything else could come later.

"Indeed, that was not what I meant when I suggested that others ought to go to Minas Tirith with Boromir," said Gandalf. "Pippin cannot stay here, for Sauron will send his riders after him."

"Then I would be happy to take Pippin with me," said Boromir.

"And I shall go with you too," said Gandalf. "After all, a wizard's tricks might come in useful."

* * *

This was the first of two farewells, and undoubtedly the least depressing one. "I shall await your tidings at Minas Tirith, my friend," said Boromir to Logan as he swung into his saddle.

"I'll make sure you hear me as soon as I see your city," said Logan. "I can be pretty loud when I wanna be. And try not to get killed if the orcs get there before I do."

Boromir grinned. There wasn't much to smile about, but trust Logan to try and lighten the darkest of days. It wasn't as if he did not have enough to worry about himself. The way he simply squared his shoulders and ploughed on was something which the Gondorian admired greatly. He wasn't sure if he could have done it if he had lost his own brother, but he definitely would not have been so composed. Then again, he and Faramir were much closer than Logan and Victor had been. "I will try my very best," he promised.

* * *

The travellers soon became no more than specks against the grey and white mountains in the distance. Logan tracked them for as long as he could, but his eyesight was much inferior to an elf's, and soon, he lost sight of them. He sighed. Now he had to turn to the more depressing business of the day. Nobody really wanted anything to do with Victor. After all, he'd tried to kill everyone worth mentioning in Edoras, and he was definitely not well-liked. Some of the men had offered to help Logan, more for his sake than for Victor's. Still, the turn-out was bound to be small, highlighting starkly just how isolated the Sabretooth had been in life. It was impossible not to feel a stab of pity for Victor.

"Are you ready?" said Aragorn, coming up to stand beside Logan.

"I don't think I'll ever be ready to bury someone, but, barring that, I'm as ready as I'll ever be," said Logan. "Besides, I don't think people are comfortable with this business, so I'd better get it over and done with."

A few of the Rohirrim had built a pyre outside of the city, as Logan had asked. Victor had hated being trapped, and his brother saw no reason to trap him beneath the earth now. In a way, setting him free on the wind was a way of fulfilling what the Sabretooth had always wanted. He would be completely at liberty to go with the wind without anything seeking to enchain him.

Logan, Aragorn, Legolas and Éomer carried the bier down from Edoras. The Wolverine was grateful for the input, because he knew that they had no reason to love his brother, and this show of respect was entirely for his benefit. People stared out of their windows as the tiny funeral procession passed. Some of the people exchanged glances and children pointed and whispered, only to be quickly hushed by their parents.

The pyre had been built some distance away from the main burial ground. Much to Logan's surprise, there were other mourners there. Gimli was holding the torch, and Éowyn was standing by the pyre, dressed in black. The bier was set down on top of the pile of wood. "He was your brother, lad," said the dwarf gruffly. "I might not have liked him, but I know you grieve, and that's...well, it pains me to see you grieve." He looked embarrassed to have admitted it, and he cleared his throat.

Logan mouthed a silent 'thank you', too overwhelmed by emotion to trust himself to speak. In fact, very few words were said at the short funeral. Nobody knew what to say. Instead, they bowed their heads as Gimli handed Logan the torch.

The Wolverine slowly approached the pyre upon which his brother's shrouded body lay. "Well," he whispered hoarsely. "Goodbye, Victor." He set the torch down at the base of the pyre. The wood, which had been doused with oil, quickly caught fire. Flames crackled as they consumed the body. The column of smoke rose high into the sky, only to dissipate. Cinders swirled in the air, carried by the cold breeze from the north. Logan stood there and watched the flames until the sky began to darken and there was nothing left but a pile of smoking coals and ash.

* * *

They had been travelling for days, only stopping for brief rests, not that Boromir could sleep much. There was too much on his mind. Aragorn, Minas Tirith's defences, his allegiances...he simply could not let his mind rest. He had to decide sometime. It was a difficult choice, choosing between one's father and one's country. Of course, if he could somehow persuade his father that letting the king return was the right thing to do, then at least one problem would be solved. However, knowing Denethor and his stubbornness, that was highly unlikely.

He watched the stars through half-closed eyes. The astrologers and astronomers often looked to them for answers. Tonight, Boromir was in dire need of unbiased counsel, something that he was not going to get from anyone. He knew why Gandalf had chosen to come to Minas Tirith. The wizard was going to pave the way for the return of the king. As wise as he was, Gandalf was not going to be of any help in this matter.

The Gondorian turned over fitfully. Pippin was sleeping soundly a short distance away, exhausted by the days of travel. He could hear the hobbit's soft snores. At least one of them could sleep. Gandalf sat with his back to the two of them. Pale smoke rose from the end of his pipe as he puffed on it in silence. The moonlight made his white hair look silver.

Maybe Gandalf _could_ help him, if he knew what to ask. Boromir got up quietly, taking care not to wake Pippin. The wizard must have heard him, but he did not turn around. "You know you ought to rest," he said as Boromir neared him.

"I cannot," said the man, sitting down beside the wizard and crossing his legs. "My mind is troubled."

"Tell me of your troubles then, for you cannot dwell on them and neglect much-needed sleep," said Gandalf gently with a smile. "If you continue like this, you will soon look older than me."

Boromir shook his head. "Ah, you tease me, Gandalf," he said. "It takes years of wisdom to look as you do, and I will not live long enough to accumulate that wisdom." He turned his head towards the dark sky. The stars were faint this night, for they were veiled by clouds. Very few of them managed to shine. "How does one read knowledge in the stars?" he asked.

"There is little knowledge to be found in the stars, to be entirely truthful," said the wizard. "People only fancy that they can read them, but whatever inspiration they find in the stars, it was actually inside them all along."

Boromir had nothing to say to that. He could detect no hints of inspiration anywhere. Maybe he would really have to just find answers all on his own after all.

* * *

Minas Tirith glistened like a pearl in the pale morning sun, outlined starkly against the dark stone of the high cliffs behind it. The sight never failed to make Boromir's breath catch in his throat. This city was everything to him, and he had dedicated his life to keeping it safe. When he had left for Rivendell, he had not known when he would see it again, or whether he would ever see it again. And now, to stand before it once more...he guessed that was how long lost lovers would feel when reunited.

There had been a reason why he had not found a wife, even though his father had encouraged him to do so. He had sworn that there would be no woman in his life until Gondor was no longer threatened by the shadow of Mordor, for he would be a poor guardian to distract himself in such a way before he was certain that its borders were secure and that no foul orc would ever set foot on his beloved land again. That was how much he loved this country, and Minas Tirith, as far as he was concerned, was its heart.

"It's beautiful," whispered Pippin in awe. His eyes were wide, and all vestiges of sleep were gone from them as he stared at the marvellous sight before them.

"Isn't it?" said Boromir, almost swelling with pride.

"There is no city of man as magnificent as Minas Tirith," said Gandalf. "Although I wish that we had not come as the bearers of bad news."

A herald took up the call as soon as the guards at the top of the wall caught sight of Boromir. Cheers could be heard long before they even reached the gates. The people of Minas Tirith had gathered at the gate, and they would have blocked the road in their eagerness to welcome the Captain of the White Tower if the guards had not pushed them back to clear the way.

The clattering of their horses' hooves on the stones paving the streets rang out as they raced up the levels, sometimes almost crashing into innocent onlookers who had no idea what was going on. Fortunately, the way the city was built meant that the sounds were magnified so that people could hear them coming long before they arrived at one place. They passed beneath arches with their details worn away by time and the rain. Crumbling statues of ancient heroes were a common sight. These were all obvious signs of decay, but they had never stood out so starkly to Boromir as they did today. Gondor needed change. They could not go on like this. Was a king really what this country needed?

Before he could find an answer to that confusing question, they had reached the seventh level. Denethor, who had heard the news that his firstborn son had returned, was waiting for him there, wearing the type of smile which seldom graced his face.

"Father!" called Boromir as he quickly leapt out of the saddle.

"Oh, let me look at you!" cried Denethor as he embraced his son. "You have grown thin!"

"You as well, Father," said Boromir. He let go of the Steward. "You are well?"

"As well as I can be without knowing where you were or what you were doing," said Denethor, "but you are back now."

"I wish I had returned under more fortunate circumstances," said Boromir, growing sombre, "but there is something urgent which I must discuss with you."

"Have you brought _it_?" whispered Denethor. The Steward's eyes widened and all previous traces of light-heartedness left him. It was business now. Boromir almost faltered under his father's intense gaze, for he knew Denethor would be disappointed.

"No, I have not," said Boromir. "But this is a matter which is better discussed within, and it is not why I have come."

It was then that Denethor noticed Boromir's companions. His eyes hardened when he caught sight of the wizard. "What is he doing here?" asked the Steward softly. "No, do not tell me, for I already know the answer. Very well; let him come. I shall be prepared."

* * *

**A/N: **To be honest, I found this chapter difficult to write because of all the emotions, and I'm also not sure if I got Boromir right. It's hard to get inside his head. Still, I hope you enjoyed it. This is veering into extremely AU territory and nothing is set in stone.


	41. Son of Denethor, Son of Gondor

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything that you recognize. **

**Partypony: **The AUness can get pretty difficult at times, but it's good to challenge myself; it keeps my mind active. Poor Logan's kinda depressed, but knowing Logan, he'll end up stronger for it. And he's got so much other stuff to worry about. ;)

**Amba gurl: **Believe it or not, since you and some others mentioned Scott, I've gotten some ideas about how to put him in. :P He'll get to do some cool stuff, I think. He's not in this chapter, but he'll be in some of the upcoming ones.

**Chapter 41: Son of Denethor, Son of Gondor**

Pippin hurried behind Gandalf, trying to keep up with the rest of the big folk. The hobbit was awestruck by the sheer size of everything around him. Everything was so...white. No wonder they called it the White City. Didn't the people of Gondor like any other colour? He kept on glancing at Boromir's father. Something about Denethor made him feel uncomfortable, as if he wasn't welcome here. Then again, Gandalf did mention that Denethor didn't like the idea of Aragorn coming to take back the throne, and the Steward also knew that they were Aragorn's friends. He shook his head. This was so complicated and unpleasant. He was glad that he was a hobbit, for hobbits never engaged in such dark and complex business.

Their footsteps echoed in the vast space. Marble statues —_white_ marble statues — lined either side. From the crowns on their heads, Pippin guessed that they were the old kings of Gondor. Actually, many of them looked a bit like Aragorn. In front of them, Denethor and Boromir were speaking so quietly that the hobbit couldn't make out any of the words. He glanced up at Gandalf. The wizard was staring straight ahead of him. Pippin followed his gaze and found himself staring at a raised marble dais —white, of course— with steps leading up to the largest and most ornate chair he had ever seen. While the hobbit had very little knowledge of royalty and royal customs, he knew that this was the throne. The throne which Aragorn would one day occupy, if everything went according to plan. However, one look at Boromir's father told him that it was not going to go so smoothly.

The Steward of Gondor had taken his place in a chair hewn out of black rock at the base of the throne. Boromir stood beside him, silent and brooding. "Tell me of your news," said the Steward.

"We come to warn you, Lord Denethor," said Gandalf before Boromir could say anything. "The forces of the enemy are amassing. He plans to attack, and soon. You must prepare your armies and send for reinforcements."

"Reinforcements?" said Denethor. "From where?" The smile he gave was bitter and completely devoid of humour. Pippin fought to remain where he was instead of taking a step back. In his heart, the hobbit knew that it was complicated business. Actually, since he had started this journey, when had anything been simple? "Our troops have been stretched as thinly as they possibly can," continued the Steward.

"You still have allies, milord," said the wizard. "Théoden of Rohan is ready to ride to Gondor's aid. All you need to do is to light the beacons."

"The beacons?" said Denethor. He laughed. "Oh yes, the beacons. Do you really think that I am a blind old man, Mithrandir? For all your wisdom, you have underestimated me. I know who bides his time in Rohan, and I shall tell you now that he shall not claim this throne to which he has no right! Gondorians shall solve Gondor's problems; it is the business of neither Rohirrim nor meddling wizards. Now, if you will excuse me, I would like to speak to my son alone. I shall have a servant lead you to the guest quarters."

* * *

It was a most awkward situation. Boromir stood before his father's desk in his study, wondering about what he ought to say. Denethor was waiting. The truth was, Boromir didn't really know where to begin. After all, the quest was still a secret. But this was his father; surely he could trust Denethor. Then again, the news that Aragorn was coming to claim what was his had put the Steward in an extremely bad mood, and when Denethor was in a bad mood, he could be unpredictable. As Logan liked to say, if Boromir said the wrong thing to his father right now, they could all be in 'deep shit'.

He started off by paraphrasing almost everything Elrond had said about the Ring being too dangerous to be used by anyone, carefully leaving out where the elven lord had said that it had to be destroyed. That was something which would be best kept secret. He did not know how his father would react to that right now. He also left out everything about the Ringbearer since the fewer people who knew about him, the better. His father listened attentively, never interrupting once, not even when Boromir was being so vague as to be completely unhelpful. That was what worried him.

Denethor was a man of many questions by nature, and his silence could only mean that something was very wrong. Considering that, Boromir decided not to talk too much about what happened, only giving the most important details and hardly mentioning Aragorn at all, although some mention was inevitable. The man had helped save his life. There was also some mention of Logan, although Boromir did not elaborate much on the Wolverine. That would be much too complicated, and he wasn't sure if he could actually explain the existence of men with claws to his father right now.

"You say that Isildur's Bane called to you?" said Denethor once his son had finished his succinct narrative. The Steward's eyes were narrowed in thought.

"Yes," said Boromir, "and I could not resist it, in the end. It is too powerful for us to wield, Father. I have learned that much, and I would not bring it to Minas Tirith even if it was our last hope, because that is no hope at all." There was silence as Denethor absorbed what his son had just said. The longer the silence dragged on, the more Boromir felt his father's displeasure. He knew he had disappointed Denethor in a way which he had never done before. To openly rebuke one's father, especially if one's father was the Steward of Gondor, was inconceivable. He could hardly believe that he had done it.

"I had not expected this of you, Boromir," said Denethor at last. "Faramir would have given me such an answer, yes, but not you."

"As I mentioned, Father, I have learned much," said Boromir, bowing his head.

"Have you really learned, or have you been tricked?" asked Denethor. "I suppose you now feel that you owe allegiance to this Aragorn of the North, simply because he is descended from a long decrepit line? No, wait until I have finished before you speak. I know you have said little about him, but I can hear it in your voice. Something in you has changed, Boromir, and I do not like it." He shook his head, and all of a sudden, Boromir realized how tired and old his father looked. It pained him to see how vulnerable Denethor was at the moment. "What has happened to you, my son?"

* * *

Gandalf stood on the balcony of the room which he had been allocated, deep in thought. Smoke curled upwards from the bowl of his pipe. He took in a long draught, and then slowly blew the smoke out, watching it dissipate in the cold night air. In the east, the sky was lit by the unnatural orange light of Mordor. Things definitely had not gone as well as he had hoped. Not only had he not been able to persuade Denethor to take action, but the Steward become completely hostile. He could only hope that Boromir would be able to persuade Denethor to change his mind. If there was anyone in the world who could convince Denethor of anything, then it was Boromir.

There was a knock on the door. "Gandalf?" It was Boromir.

"Come in!" called Gandalf. Why did he have the feeling that the man had not come here to bring him good news?

Boromir shut the door quietly behind him and then slowly sat down on a chair and rested his hands on his knees. His shoulders were slumped and his face was drawn, as if he had not slept for many days. "I tried to talk to my father," he said.

"And?" said Gandalf.

"He did not like what I had to say," said Boromir. "I do not think he has ever been so furious with me before."

Gandalf sat down opposite the man, still puffing on his pipe, but now, his eyebrows had drawn together in a frown. "What did you tell him?"

"Not much at all," said Boromir. "I mentioned nothing about the quest, nor did I say anything concerning the Ringbearer. Speaking of Aragorn was inevitable, and he...he seemed to think that I had betrayed him because he somehow knew that I—do you think I pushed him too far?

"It is possible," said Gandalf, "but you must not blame yourself. I sense something different about him this time. He is not himself."

"Yes, that was what I had thought," said Boromir. "In the past, he would never doubt me. I could do no wrong in his eyes, and I admit I sometimes used that to my advantage. Now, I do not recognize the man. He has changed."

"So have you," said Gandalf quietly.

"That is what he said," said Boromir. He sounded so troubled that Gandalf felt a stab of pity for him. He knew how torn the man was, even if Boromir had not said anything about it. Unfortunately, he could not give him much helpful advice. This was something Boromir had to decide for himself.

* * *

The entire city buzzed with apprehension and activity as husbands, brothers, fathers and sons polished their armour and weapons, making whatever preparations that were necessary for war. Théoden expected news to come from Gondor soon, it was best if the Rohirrim were prepared for battle as soon as the message came. Logan welcomed this surge of action, for it took his mind off the many troubles plaguing him, at least temporarily. He was sometimes involved in the meetings where Aragorn, Théoden and Éomer discussed war preparations with Théoden's counsellors, although he was more of a spectator. Still, there was so much to absorb that he didn't really have time to think about Victor's death or worry about his absent friends. The sheer number of names was enough to confuse him. Most of them were unpronounceable, and, well, Logan had never been great with names.

However, there was a question which he wanted to ask, but did not think it appropriate. Was it just men who were going to fight, or would the elves send troops of their own like they had done in Helm's Deep? Thinking about elves inadvertently led to thoughts about one particular elf. How was Sidhien faring? Did she miss him just like he missed her? He realized that it probably wasn't appropriate to think about a girl since they were on the brink of war and he'd just killed his brother, but he couldn't help it. Victor's death was the end of an era. Logan wanted to move on. While he still wanted to remember, he was also ready for the future, one which included Sidhien. In other words, he was ready to commit again.

"You have that look on your face," said Legolas, nudging him in the ribs. Logan was polishing yet another sword. He had a cigar between his teeth, but it was not lit. When Legolas elbowed him, he almost wished that he had lit it, for the smoke was a very good elf-deterrent, although Legolas seemed to have gained immunity after having travelled with a bunch of addicted smokers for so long. "It would not be the first time."

"I don't know what you're talkin' about," said Logan. The last thing he needed was discussing his love life with Legolas, which would inevitably lead to him having to discuss it with everyone else, since someone was bound to overhear him.

"Of course you do," said Legolas. "I am not completely ignorant when it comes to such matters. Besides, you mortals are not as subtle as you would like to think. Aragorn has a similar look when he thinks of Imladris and a certain lady."

"Oh, shut up," grumbled Logan. He _really_ didn't want to discuss his love life with anyone. Some things were private. "Don't you have your own love life to worry about?"

* * *

Rivendell was peaceful, but her mind was never at peace. Ever since Berenon had returned with a succinct message from Logan, her mind had been troubled, not because she was confused about how she felt, but she was conflicted. Her feelings for the strange clawed man had not faded; if anything, his absence had only made her more aware of how much he meant to her. Sidhien stared out across to the east, where the sun was rising from behind the snow-capped peaks. Logan was somewhere out there. Was he thinking about her right now, the way she was thinking of him?

Her embroidery sat in her lap; it had been untouched for the past few hours while her thoughts had dwelt on the man with six claws, wondering where he was right now. Was he still in Rohan, or had he travelled further south? Berenon had said that the war was going to move to Gondor now that Saruman was no longer a threat. Was Logan there right now?

"Sidhien?" said a voice behind her. It jerked her out of her reverie and she almost dropped her embroidery, only she managed to catch it in time.

"Mother," she said. "You startled me."

"Yes, I realized," said her mother, Bronweth, as she went to sit down beside her. "You have been quiet of late, my daughter. Is there something which you would like to talk to me about? We should have no secrets."

"Why would I keep anything from you?" asked Sidhien with a smile. In fact, there was something she would like to discuss with her mother, and her father too, but this did not seem to be the appropriate time, especially since her father and brother were still in Lothlorien, preparing for war.

"Now, now," said Bronweth. "You know there is nothing you can hide from me. I carried you within me for a year. I know my daughter. You need not be afraid, for you know I love you."

"That I do," said Sidhien, "but...you might not like this."

"Tell me, and I shall decide whether I like it or not."

For a moment, mother and daughter sat in silence. Sidhien did not want to hurt her mother, and what she was about to say certainly would. She knew that she was still a child in her parents' eyes, and to tell them that she was on the brink of making the same decision as Luthien and the Evenstar had...well, she really didn't know how they would react.

"Is it a man?" said her mother, breaking the long silence. When Sidhien opened her mouth but did not speak, Bronweth's smile widened. "Oh, daughter, but that is wonderful news! Who is he? Do we know him? Does he know how you feel about him?"

"He should know," said Sidhien. "Yes, I believe he must have some idea."

"And does he return your feelings?" asked her mother. "Pray, daughter, tell me who he is, and then maybe your father can speak to him once the war is over."

"I think he feels something for me, although I do not understand him well," said Sidhien. "We have not known one another for long, and no, you and father do not know him."

"Is he from Imladris, then? No? Then Mirkwood?"

"He...I do not know where he is from, and he could not tell me," said Sidhien. She winced as she said it; that did not sound very reassuring at all. "I met him in Lorien. He was one of the Lady's guests." Bronweth's smile faded, and Sidhien could already guess what her mother was thinking. Lady Galadriel had not had many guests recently. In fact, she had only had nine. Only one of those guests had been of the Eldar, and he was a prince of Mirkwood. She sighed. It had to come out now, or else she might never find the courage to say it out loud. "Yes, mother," she said. "He is of the _edain_. His name is Logan."

"But, daughter, you cannot possibly..." Bronweth trailed off, knowing fully well that it was possible. Had not the Evenstar given her love to a mortal? But to have the same thing happening to her daughter was too much to bear. Sidhien was too young. How could she even understand?

"I have never felt this way about anyone before, mother," said Sidhien. "In fact, his absence has only made me more certain about my feelings for him. I know how much this pains you, mother, and I feared hurting you, which is why I have not told you until now."

"But if you wanted to spare me pain, then—no, that is foolish of me to say," said Bronweth. "The heart listens not to reason. But are you really certain? You are young and there are many things in this world which you do not understand."

"I understand _this_, mother," said Sidhien. "I understand what I am feeling, and my feelings for Logan are true."

"But what if he does not feel the same way?" asked Bronweth. "_Edain_ are strange creatures."

"Then he would tell me," said Sidhien. "I might not understand him too well, but I know he is too honest a man to lead a woman on. Moreover, he has promised me. Twice. Berenon brought me a message from him."

"_Berenon_?" said Bronweth. "You told your brother, but you did not think to tell either your father or me?"

"Berenon found me with Logan's coat," said Sidhien. This was getting very awkward. "I had no choice but to tell him, and he has more or less given his consent, if not his approval, and he would not do that if he thought that Logan was anything less than honourable. I trust Berenon's judgement and moreover, I trust my judgement."

Bronweth was stunned, Sidhien could tell. She could not blame her mother. This was such a huge secret; she had no idea how she had kept it for so long.

"I love you, Sidhien," said Bronweth after an awkward drawn-out silence. "And you know I just want you to be happy. The last thing I want is to upset you, but you cannot be naive about this. There is a chance that he will fall in battle, or that he has already fallen in battle. What will you do then?"

Sidhien turned and looked away, back towards the east. Indeed, her mother spoke the truth. She could not ignore such a possibility. "Then I shall go with you and father into the west when you sail, and carry him in my heart forever." She tried to sound stronger than she felt, but she could not stop her voice from quivering as she spoke. Such a possibility was too terrible to consider.

"Oh, my dear sweet daughter," whispered Bronweth as she took the younger woman into her arms and embraced her. "No matter what happens, you will always be my child, and your happiness will always be my main concern."

"I am frightened, mother," said Sidhien. Hot tears ran down her face and she clung to Bronweth as if she were a tiny elfling once more. "I am frightened of what might happen. I do not want to hurt either you or Father, but I think I can say for certain that I love Logan. I know not what to do!"

"There is no easy answer, my daughter," said Bronweth, "and this is one choice that I cannot help you to make. Talk to your father, but I doubt he will tell you anything different. In the end, you must follow your intuition. Follow your heart. If this man, Logan, is the only man in the world who can make you happy, then you should follow him, and I will let you go with my blessing, even if it means we will never see each other again. As long as I know that you will have joy, then I shall be content."

"Do you really mean that?" whispered Sidhien as she let go of her mother and stared into her eyes.

"Sidhien, in all your life, have I ever told you a single untruth?" said Bronweth. "I would never lie to you, and especially not about something as important as this. I am not quite _willing_ to let you go, I must admit. No parent can willingly let their child go, but I _will_ let you go if that is what you need, and I am almost certain your father will say the same. But first, you must be certain about _everything_ before you make your decision."

* * *

Logan sat on the steps of Meduseld, looking out towards the west as he watched the sunset. He was smoking his last cigar; it had surprised him how long they had lasted. The Wolverine blew out a stream of smoke and watched it dissipate into the air. If he had been at home, the call for dinner would have sounded around now, assuming that Rohan had the same time as Westchester, which he highly doubted. He missed them all so much. The kids would probably be asking about him. He had become rather attached to them, even though he was loathe to admit it. It did nothing for his fearsome reputation if anyone found out that he read fairy tales to them and sat on the sofa, drinking beer while they watched infernal cartoons about singing cutlery.

The others were talking about the cavalry. Since Logan knew next to nothing about horses, despite the fact that there'd been stables back in Xavier's school and the fact that he'd been forced to deal with one for a couple of weeks, he had chosen to stay out of the discussion. He needed some air anyway, and some time alone would do him good. There were so many things on his mind, clamouring for his attention. He couldn't put off thinking about them forever.

The setting sun had stained the sky with various hues of red, reminding Logan of bloodstains. No, he was not the most romantic person in the world and he wasn't ashamed of it. He had a feeling; the reckoning was drawing near. Soon, they were either all going to die, or they were going to triumph over the Dark Lord. And what then? Everyone seemed to think that Logan had come here for a reason, and he was pretty sure that the reason was the war. But afterwards? Would he be able to return? As fond as he had gotten of Middle Earth, he knew he didn't really belong. Besides, the kids needed him too. Many of them saw him as a father figure, probably for lack of a better one, he figured. Most of these kids had either run away, as Marie had, or they had been rejected by their families. He couldn't just leave them like that.

But what about everyone else in Middle Earth? If he did leave, he would probably never be able to return, and he would never see them again. What about Sidhien? Would she leave with him if he asked her? He inhaled another lungful of smoke. Maybe he was worrying too much. At any rate, there were more pressing matters to think about, such as the war itself. Not that he really knew what was going on. Strategic planning had never been his forte. He was better at improvising.

"You were thinking about that girl of yours again," said Gimli as he sat down beside Logan on the steps. The dwarf had no love for horses either, and in this situation, he and Logan had the most in common so it made sense that the two of them would stick together whilst Legolas and the others played horse-whisperer. "You are always thinking about her when you are not too busy being angry with something."

"How can you tell?" said Logan, glancing down at his friend. Did everyone know? Actually, yes, they did. Gimli had all but announced it to the world when they had been fighting over soap.

"The same way everyone else can tell," said Gimli. The dwarf smirked. "I'm not blind, lad, and while there is a possibility that I might be younger than you, I am not _that_ young."

Logan made a non-descript sound and continued to smoke his cigar. Gimli was completely unfazed by the lack of response. "You know, lad," he said. "From the way you look when you're thinking about her, and the amount of time you spend thinking about her, I think you might as well ask her to marry you when you see her again."

That got a reaction. "You don't think it's too quick?" said Logan.

"With a girl like that?" said Gimli with a grin. "I'll bet that there are plenty of others willing to take your place if you don't act fast enough. That is a rare sort of woman. She's beautiful, she can cook, and moreover..." Gimli's grin widened like that of a child who was about to open the biggest present he had ever received. "...she has bad enough taste to find you attractive."

"Hey!"

* * *

He stared out across the Fields of Pelennor, over to where the once proud city of Osgiliath lay, watching over the river which snaked over the land like a shimmering grey ribbon. Faramir was there with hardly enough men to properly defend the city. Upon his return, Boromir had asked—no, begged— his father to let him bring reinforcements to his brother, but the Steward had adamantly refused. Smoke rose from the ruins and faint high pitched screams could be heard as fell beasts from Mordor swooped down on the men. Even from the battlements of Minas Tirith, Boromir could see the streams of orcs pouring into the ruined city. It was a hopeless battle. They had known that for a long time. However, true to the Gondorian way, Faramir and his men were not going to give up without a fight.

Boromir slammed his fist against the stone of the wall, drawing blood. That was it. He didn't care what his father had commanded. As a brother and a captain, he could not stand by while good men died in a hopeless fight. He should never have obeyed in the first place.

Mobilizing troops might prove to be a bit of trouble, since Boromir didn't exactly have the Steward's authorization. However, this was an emergency, and the men did not need to know that he did not have permission from his father. By the time the news reached Denethor, they would already be out of the gate. A few months ago, Boromir would not have even thought of defying his father in such a manner. It was almost treason to disobey the Steward. However, this was war, and there were things which needed to be done.

Without thinking about it further, for fear of hesitating, Boromir commanded the grooms to saddle his horse. Men, women and children jumped out of his way to avoid being ridden down as he charged through the streets like a mad horseman. He needed to reach the barracks on the first level of the city before his father got wind of this and tried to stop him. Too late, he wondered if he ought to have told Gandalf at the very least. The wizard would have been able to help him.

"My lord!" called the lieutenant who was in charge that day. The barracks on the first level was for common cavalry and infantry. Boromir had worked with them on many occasions and he knew most of the men's names, although no doubt some of them would have been promoted during his absence. He remembered this man, however; he'd saved his life on one occasion.

"Tell the men to prepare," he said. "We are riding out to meet Captain Faramir."

"The Steward has commanded this?" asked the man. Then he quickly decided that he didn't need an answer when Boromir gave him the coldest glare he was capable of and hurried to do the nobleman's bidding. The men gathered without question, assuming that Boromir did have authorization. While Boromir had rushed head long into death before, mobilizing a fighting force when his father had expressly forbidden it was one of the most daring things he'd ever done, and he could not help but feel some trepidation. Considering Denethor's unstable mind at the moment, there was no knowing what he would do once he heard about this. He was a father, yes, but he was a leader of men first and foremost, and as a leader, he could suffer neither dissent nor outright rebellion, which was what Boromir was doing right now, in effect. Not that he could afford to care at the moment, nor did he really care. Let his father deal with him when he came back. Right now, he had a mission.

* * *

The screeches of the Nazgûl were deafening; combined with the sound of blood rushing past his ears, it was impossible to hear anything else. It was all Faramir could do to keep riding. Wind grazed his ear as one of the winged beasts swooped down dangerously close to him. All around him, men were being snagged by giant talons. Their broken bodies and their blood rained down on the rest of them as they tried to escape that very fate. He tried to concentrate on the White City, which loomed before him; the last refuge. His steed swerved and screamed in terror as the body of another horse fell directly in front of it. Faramir clung onto the reins and to the saddle; if he fell, then he would most certainly die. Minas Tirith loomed before him, but it seemed so far away. At this rate, he was never going to reach it in time.

Wait...was that a company of men riding towards him? Had his father actually sent out reinforcements? Faramir's spirits soared at the sight. Maybe there was hope after all. Maybe they were not all going to die. Arrows cut through the air as the reinforcements fired volley after volley at the winged beasts. Most of the arrows missed, but occasionally, some of them hit their mark, causing the creatures to give one of their grating screams and fall back, but only momentarily. Compared to the size of the beasts, the arrows were nothing but needles. Then again, a needle in the right place could kill.

As the other company of men drew closer, Faramir's voice caught in his throat, for leading them was Boromir! To think that his brother would return at this hour and come to his aid! Maybe the fortunes had decided to be kind after all. Then he decided that the Valar must have been feeling unusually benevolent, for not only had they sent Boromir, they had sent someone else as well.

A white figure, seated upon a great white stallion, was racing towards them across the sea of grass. Mithrandir had come! The wizard brandished his staff and light issued from its tip, driving back the Nazgûl and their fell steeds. For now, they were no match for the White Wizard, since their leader was not here. For that, Faramir was grateful. With Gandalf's help, they were able to reach the relative safety of the city. The gates opened with a loud groan, as if welcoming them home. The sound of his horse's hooves on the pale flagstones had never been so pleasant to the ear. However, he did not dwell on that.

Faramir swung out of his saddle and then rushed over to embrace his brother. "It has been too long, Boromir!" he cried as he slapped the older man on the back.

"Indeed, I have missed you, little brother," said Boromir. "I trust that you are well?"

"I am, thanks to you," said Faramir as he released his brother. "If Father had not seen fit to send out reinforcements then..." His voice trailed off when he saw the look on Boromir's face. "Dear Valar! You do not mean to say that Father did not give you permission to ride out, surely?"

"That is exactly what I meant to say, little brother, but you have said it for me."

* * *

**A/N: **This was mostly a filler chapter. Bear with me. I promise there will be some action sometime in the near future.


	42. All for Gondor

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything that you recognize; it all belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien, New Line Cinema, Marvel and 20****th**** Century Fox. **

**Vballmania23: **Trying to work out what would have happened if Boromir had lived has been one of the most exciting and challenging aspects of this story for me. :) As a history student, I know how the smallest detail can change the entire course of history and I try to apply this understanding when I write these stories.

**Amba gurl: **I haven't decided what Scott will be yet. I have no doubt that he will eventually reveal it to me after I've written a bit about his feelings. ;)

**Partypony:** Logan and Sidhien make a very interesting couple, if only because they are such opposiftes. :D

_Thank you all for the reviews. They are much appreciated. _

**Chapter 42: All for Gondor**

They were taunting him, those images. He could not get them out of his mind. They filled his every waking thought and permeated his dreams, giving him no peace. Every moment of every day, he was haunted by the prospect of the future where there would be a king on the throne of Gondor once more and the power of the Stewards would wane until there was nothing left but tales of their former glory. It reminded him of his failure and the fact that no matter what he did, he would never be able to surpass this son of a decrepit royal line. He had failed to bring Gondor peace and prosperity. They would speak of him with pity, and perhaps even mockery. Denethor, the Steward of Gondor, as great as he was, was no match for this ranger of the north.

He tried his best to show that he was anything but a failing ruler, of course. Gondor could not lose more territory under his rule, and he was willing to sacrifice everything in order to prove to himself, and to the world, that he had not failed. Gondor would show no weakness under him. They would fight with what they had, even if it meant putting men in precarious positions all along the border, with barely the numbers to beat back the waves of orcs from Mordor. Denethor knew that it was a risk, but in order to prove to the world that Gondor had no need of a king from Isildur's line, it was a risk that he was willing to take. If there was one thing that he truly despised, then it was failure.

So he continued to look into that stone. Information was the difference between victory and defeat. It didn't matter how much it tormented him to see this future unfold before his eyes. A future without him. He never saw himself. The Steward predicted that by then, he was obsolete. His sons were there, however, doing homage to that ranger. Perhaps the worst thing was knowing that he had been betrayed by those whom he held most dear. His son, his firstborn, had been swayed by the smooth words of the treacherous wizard. It was inconceivable. It had always been Faramir who had been beguiled by the Grey Wanderer's tales of the olden days. Boromir had ever been the soldier, the one who had paid little heed to the deeds of the ancient kings. He had always honoured them, yes, but he had also made it abundantly clear that should a son of Isildur's house ever rise to contend with the power of the Stewards, he would be there to fight him. But now...things had changed. He had heard it in Boromir's voice and in the words he chose; his conviction had faltered, as if his mind had been ensnared by some spell.

The aged Steward covered the stone with its piece of black velvet. He felt drained of energy and every single one of his bones ached. He strode stiffly over to the door and unlocked it with a heavy key wrought of iron. No one could ever know about this stone. It was a dangerous tool and in the hands of anyone else other than a man strong enough to withstand its power, it could be lethal.

Denethor narrowed his eyes against the sudden brightness as he stepped out of the darkened room and closed the door behind him. His footsteps echoed in the empty corridors. Outside, he could hear men shouting. The Steward quickened his pace. Considering recent events, anything could have happened while he had sequestered himself with the seeing stone and the information it offered.

* * *

He knew he would have to tell his father sometime. Sooner or later, Denethor would find out, and Boromir would rather he found out from the direct source rather than hearsay. Besides, it would be too much trouble to keep such a thing secret anyway. The Steward knew about every movement of the armed forces. In fact, there was every chance that someone would have told his father by now. The seventh level of the city was quiet and subdued as always. The shadow of Mordor, which could easily be seen, robbed men of any desire to converse.

Boromir glanced back at Faramir before dismounting. During their way up, they had spoken a little, although the younger son of Denethor had expressed the wish to talk with his brother further about matters of great importance. As curious as Boromir was, it would have to wait. The sooner the storm broke out, the sooner they could weather it out and then get back to the business of defending Gondor's borders.

The two brothers marched into the throne room. The pale eyes of the ancient marble kings seemed to follow them as they approached their father, who sat in his usual place at the base of the empty throne. Denethor's icy glare told Boromir everything that he needed to know; his father was absolutely furious, as he had ever right to be. This was not only a case of a son defying his father, but also of a subject defying his overlord.

"You purposely disobeyed me," said Denethor quietly, and quite calmly, although there was no ignoring the underlying rage in his voice.

"It was not right for a soldier of Gondor to remain safely behind high walls whilst his comrades faced certain death," said Boromir, fighting to keep his voice neutral. This was not the time for him to lose control. He needed to placate the steward...somehow. A voice at the back of his mind whispered that as far as temperament was concerned, Faramir was much better suited to this task. However, considering Denethor's irrational dislike for his younger son, the only one who could speak with relative safety was Boromir. He hoped that he wouldn't end up sounding like the Wolverine; Logan had influenced him somewhat.

"You risked the lives of a hundred soldiers just so that you could save five?" said Denethor. "How is that any more 'right', may I ask?"

"You forget that it was not just any five men out there, Father," said Boromir. His voice was shaking with pent up emotion; he could not help it. "One of them was your son and my brother!"

"Men in our position must put duty before everything else, even family, Boromir!" cried Denethor. "Soldiers of Gondor must be prepared to shed their blood and sacrifice what is required of them!"

"And what if the sacrifice of power and familial glory and power is required?" demanded Boromir. He knew he was losing his temper. Both his father and Gandalf were correct in their assessment of him; he had changed. Everything had become clearer and more confusing at the same time. His conflicting thoughts and the stress of the past few months had taken their toll on him. Faramir placed a restraining hand on his arm, but he shook it off. "Would you make it, then?"

"Do not speak to me of sacrifice!" Denethor was almost snarling. "What do you know of it? I have given everything to Gondor, forsaking love and peace of mind. Everything!" He rose to his feet, suddenly a formidable figure again, only this was not someone Boromir recognized. A shadow hovered above the Steward, it seemed, and it was making his firstborn's blood grow cold.

"You say I have changed, Father," he whispered, "but you have changed more. What has happened to you?"

"Only what must happen," said Denethor. Once more, he was the calm Steward, at least on the exterior. "You are not to leave the city without my permission, Boromir, Captain of the White Tower. Remember who you are, and whom you serve. As for Faramir, you will prepare a counter attack. Osgiliath must be regained."

"Father, that is madness!" Boromir blurted out before he could stop himself. "At this hour, what we need is to keep our forces together. With our numbers, Osgiliath is not defensible!"

"If it is not defensible, then it should not be so difficult to retake it," said Denethor.

"We are not prepared to besiege a city, Father," said Boromir.

Ever the mediator, Faramir tried to intervene. "Brother, perhaps—" he began, but he was cut off abruptly.

"No, let me speak," said Boromir. "We are greatly outnumbered, and there is very little chance that we will even set foot within the city before our men are slaughtered by the arrows of the orcs. Losses do not matter to them, because for every orc we kill, there will be two more waiting to replace it. Mordor is more than capable of swamping us with numbers. And even if we do take back the city, what then? It will only be conquered again and the only thing we will have accomplished is getting more of our own men killed!"

"What would you have me do?" said Denethor. "Would you just let the enemy take our territory without fighting back?"

"We _are_ fighting back, but in order to fight back successfully, we must keep our strength intact," said Boromir. Politics might make his head reel and stop him from getting any sleep, but he understood _this_. It was the one thing he understood the most. He might love his father, but Gondor was everything. The only way to ensure Gondor's survival was to hold Minas Tirith until the Rohirrim arrived. Everything else could wait until afterwards. Who knew when Sauron would strike, and how hard he would strike? "We cannot fight this war on our own. Please, Father, send word to Rohan. We need our allies."

"Do you want your allies, or do you want your _king_?" asked Denethor. "As I have said before, and will say again, Gondorians will solve Gondor's problems. We have no need of Rohirrim or rangers from the north."

Boromir's frustration only grew. Could his father not see that it had nothing to do with Aragorn? So long as he breathed, he was not going to let Denethor send Faramir out on a futile and suicidal mission to retake Osgiliath. Faramir might not be objecting, but that was Faramir. He never complained. "This is not about Aragorn," he said bluntly. His father flinched at the mention of the name. "If we do not call for help, not only will there never be a king on the throne, there soon will not be a Steward sitting here either."

"Are you threatening me?" said Denethor.

"I am being honest with you, Father," said Boromir. "I know you are in a difficult position, but for the salvation of Gondor, can you not put aside personal grievances and consider the broader situation? You speak of sacrifice. I would sacrifice everything for our people's survival, and if this family's power is the cost, then I say it is a small price to pay. I am willing to give up my prestige, my status, my power, my life; I would pay any price for Gondor."

"Do you not see, Boromir?" said the Steward. He sounded so tired and so old. Denethor rubbed his temples with his fingers. "Everything I do here is for you. I am old, Boromir, and the only thing I want to see is that you have a secure position in life when I am gone, and yet, here you are, telling me to step aside and hand over everything our house has fought so hard to maintain to that _ranger_." He spat out the last word as if it tasted bad.

"I know how much you have done, Father," said Boromir. "And I know that I can never repay you for everything you have done for us, but if the price for all of this is Gondor's survival, then I would rather you did not pay it. In the end, everything we have was given to us by the Gondorian people. How can we put our own needs ahead of theirs when they have given us so much?" He knelt down and took Denethor's gnarled hands in his own. "Please, Father. Light the beacons. There is still hope left for Middle Earth. As for what happens afterwards, that can wait. We need our allies if we are to hold out against Mordor. And if what Gondor needs it the return of the king, then I would gladly welcome him."

The Steward looked as if he had been struck, so shocked was he by Boromir's declaration. All his anger seemed to drain out of him, leaving behind only an old man with haunted eyes. "Is this truly your decision, my son?" said Denethor in a hoarse whisper.

"It is, Father," said Boromir. "I have made my choice, and I choose Gondor."

* * *

Denethor regarded his son. Images flashed before his eyes. He had loved his boy from the very moment the midwife had placed him into his arms, red faced and squalling. They had had their disagreements, but nothing had ever been like this before. He was angry, yes, but deep down, he was also proud. His son was not a man who would capitulate to authority. All of a sudden, things became very clear. Everything he had done to preserve the power of the Stewards, he had done for Boromir, for his sons. He had been willing to sacrifice anything so that they would be able to keep their places as lords of Gondor after he was gone. But if they did not want it, then why was he still struggling? Was there even any point? No; none at all. Did he approve of what Boromir was doing? No. No father could approve of his son throwing all those prospects away. Was he going to do anything to stop Boromir? No; it would only be a waste of effort on his part. Boromir had inherited his stubbornness from his father, and this stubbornness was now backed by conviction. "Very well, then," said Denethor. "I have said all that I have to say. Everything I did, I have done for you, but if you will not accept it, there is little I can do."

For a moment, Boromir said nothing at all. He was much too shocked. Had his father really capitulated, just like that? Denethor indicated that he should rise. "Get me a scribe," he commanded one of the guards. The man bowed and hurried to do the Steward's bidding.

What Denethor did next made Boromir wonder if someone had taken over his father's mind, for the Steward had his scribe set out a document, declaring that from now on, Boromir had full authority over all the armed forces in the city, and that his command was the equivalent of the Steward's. He pressed his seal into the pool of hot wax at the bottom of the document. "Take it," he said, holding out the document to Boromir. "You have made your choice, my son. I do not approve of it, but I am an old man and not long for this world. You are no longer a child, and I know I cannot force you to do anything against your will. Therefore, the only thing I can give you is the means to fulfil your vision of the future. Faramir will be your second-in-command and he will answer to none except you. Go and prepare our people for battle. I see that I have now become obsolete."

* * *

It was with great trepidation that Gandalf watched the soldiers light the beacon. The wood, which had been doused with oil, caught fire quickly enough. The flames flared into life and their light seemed to pierce through the gloom which had settled over the city. As another beacon in the distance made itself known, hope spread throughout all those who saw it.

The wizard had very little idea about what had transpired between but somehow, it had ended with the Steward relinquishing his power to his sons. And Boromir had surprised him too. When he had first come to Rivendell, the very idea of having a king in Gondor had repulsed him, but now, he was openly accepting it. Such change had not been expected, especially not in one as stubborn as Boromir, but, then again, Boromir's allegiance was to Gondor, above all, and Gondor needed her king back. At any rate, it was an excellent change, and the wizard was not about to question it.

* * *

Recruitment was one of the most important matters which now occupied Boromir and Faramir's attentions. They all knew how important it was that they had the numbers to defend the city against the forces of Mordor. Recruiting stations had been set up all over the city, and they had loosened the requirements; desperate times called for desperate measures. If women could fight at the battle of Helm's Deep, then there was no reason why Gondor could not utilize the old, the crippled and the young. Every man from between the ages of fifteen and fifty-five was encouraged to enlist. Boromir was not so desperate as to forcefully recruit yet. Besides, he much preferred idea of relying on the men's love for Gondor.

Overall, he was rather pleased with the number of young men who had decided to serve their country. He observed from a distance as man after man submitted his name and placed his thumbprint next to it as proof of consent. It would take ten of them to do the work of one able-bodied soldier, but that was better than nothing. Then he frowned.

The announcement had specifically said 'men', so what was a woman doing here? He narrowed his eyes. Was that woman leading a man with a blindfold? How queer. His curiosity was piqued, and he decided to watch for the time-being. The woman and her blindfolded companion reached the low table where the scribe was writing down the names of the new recruits. The man took one look at the blindfolded one and then shook his head. The blindfolded one tried to argue. That was when Boromir decided to intervene.

"I appreciate your loyalty to your country, good master," he said, "but you must understand that you cannot fight if you cannot see."

"You don't understand," said the other man. There was something about his manner of speaking which seemed strangely familiar, but Boromir could not place it. "I really can help you. I'll prove it." He turned to the woman who was guiding him. "Maeneth, take me to the wall, please?" The woman looked at her charge, and then glanced at Boromir, unsure of what to do. Boromir nodded. There would be no harm in letting the man show whatever he had to show. The woman led him over to the part of the wall which faced Mordor directly. The man reached up and undid his blindfold. Curiously, instead of sightless-eyes, the man's eyes were shut tightly, as if he was afraid to open them. He took a deep breath, and then opened them.

Red light shot across the fields of Pelennor. If the man had aimed better, he might have struck the very walls of Mordor with that strange fire coming from his eyes. As it was, when he closed his eyes a moment later, there was a deep chasm in the field where the fire had touched the ground. "I didn't hit anything, did I?" he asked.

"No," said the woman. "It is fine. You only struck the ground." She tied the blindfold over his eyes again and then led him back over to Boromir and the scribe. There was silence as the dumbstruck witnesses tried to understand what had just happened. The scribe picked up his quill with a shaking hand. "Name?" he asked.

"Ruinhen," said the man. "Ruinhen of the Flaming Eyes." That was when Boromir finally recovered. It could not be...and yet, he had seen it. At any rate, was it really so strange? After all, Logan had come to Middle Earth.

"No," he said. "Your name is not Ruinhen, Scott Summers. Or would you prefer to be called Cyclops?"

* * *

Scott Summers. No one had called him by that name for as long as he had been in Minas Tirith. And certainly he had told no one about his codename. How could this captain know? "Do not be alarmed," said the other man, as if he could sense Scott's nervousness. Then again, it was probably pretty obvious. "Any friend of Logan's is a friend of mine."

"Logan...?" No, it could not be. It was not possible. There had to be some mistake. "Logan, as in..."

"Yes, I mean the Wolverine," said the other man.

Of all the people in the world, did it have to be Logan who ended up in Middle Earth? And how did this Gondorian know Logan anyway? "Who are you?" he demanded. "How do you know all of this?"

* * *

Scott's head was reeling. Lord Boromir. This was all too strange, and everything was happening too quickly. He'd revealed himself to be a mutant to people who didn't even know what mutations were, and then the Steward's heir, someone whose rank was more or less equal to that of the Prince of Wales, had declared that Scott was not the first mutant he had met. And of all the mutants Lord Boromir could have met, he had to meet the Wolverine. Scott was not religious by any means, but he was beginning to wonder if someone up there intended for him and Logan to end up in Middle Earth. And somehow, Scott had been taken in by a hardworking blacksmith and his family, whilst Logan had ended up being a companion to kings and princes! Talk about unsuitable, not that Scott felt there was anything unsuitable about being adopted by a blacksmith's family, but Logan as a diplomat?

He expressed his doubts, and Lord Boromir laughed. "Indeed, it is a strange sight, especially since he has a fondness for reminding everyone that he has claws," he said. "Still, he is a better man than you give him credit for, and he has spoken rather highly of you."

"You mean he didn't say I had a stick up my...?" No, that was not an appropriate thing to say,

"He did mention it," said Lord Boromir, "and I was shocked, yes, but he also said that you are a decent man, and I have complete faith in his judgement."

"Logan's heart is in the right place," Scott admitted. "We just don't like each other very much."

Now that the news had finally set in, he realized that he was looking forward to 'seeing' Logan again. At least he was someone who would have news about everything that had happened after Jean had inadvertently sent him here. It had been too long since he had had a proper conversation with someone. The people who had taken him in and given him a home were generous to the core, but they did not understand, and could not possibly understand. In fact, with Logan here, it would be the first time in three years that someone would understand what he was going through.

* * *

He took satisfaction in the sheen of his sword. The weapon had seen very little use; he'd only taken it out of its scabbard only once or twice after the Lady had given it to him. It hadn't even tasted blood yet. Mostly, Logan had worn it as an accessory, showing everyone that he was a warrior instead of something else. After all, his claws were the most convenient weapons he owned. Still, he liked looking at the weapon, if only to remember the happy days he'd spent in Lothlorien. Well, mostly happy days. Victor had more or less ruined that midnight walk. But he'd enjoyed it there. He smiled and ran his thumb along one of the mended tears on his leather jacket. He could see the end coming, and when it comes, he would—

Logan heard a shout. Not a panicked shout, but rather, an excited shout. Never one to miss out on any action, unless it was staged action, he sheathed his sword in a fluid movement and ran in the direction from which the sound had come. It had sounded a bit like Aragorn, come to think of it, only the ranger usually had a lot more control over his emotions. Whatever it was, it had to be big.

He raced up the steps of Meduseld, pausing only to avoid running straight into —and through— the wooden doors. The guards knew him well enough to let him in without question. Either it was that, or the king had not expressly forbidden anyone from entering. Everyone else was already there, and a servant was carrying an armful of maps over to a long trestle table which had been hastily cleared. Logan's question died on his lips. He knew what was going on now, and he was extremely relieved that Boromir had finally sent word. "What are we gonna do?"

"That, my clawed friend, is what we are here to discuss," said Éomer.

However, before they could discuss anything, one of the sentries burst into the hall. "Milord!" he cried, almost stumbling before Théoden. "Riders have been sighted. There are about thirty of them, and we cannot discern who they are!"

Maps forgotten, Théoden rushed out of Meduseld. For an old man, he was definitely very agile. The rest of them followed the king out to the palisades. Most of them had their weapons in hand, ready to do battle if there was such a need. Personally, Logan did not see the cause for alarm. If there were only thirty riders, then they would certainly make short work of them. In the gathering gloom, it was difficult to see anything, especially since the riders were still so far away. He glanced back to see if their resident telescope —also known as Legolas— was there, only to find that the elf had disappeared. Logan tried to catch his scent and soon located him. Without anyone noticing, the elf had climbed up one of the sentry's towers.

"Who are they, Legolas?" called Logan.

"You need not be alarmed," came the elf's reply. "I believe we shall be pleasantly surprised soon!"

"For the love of all things sacred, lad, just give us a straight answer!" hollered Gimli.

"Well, if you insist," said Legolas. "I believe they are men from the north, and riding with them are Elladan and Elrohir, the sons of Elrond of Rivendell."

"From Rivendell and from the north?" said Théoden. "That is most unexpected indeed. What could possibly have brought them here?"

"What else but the war, milord?" said Legolas.

* * *

A small crowd had gathered at the gates, trying to get first glimpses of the company of strangers now riding towards Edoras. Théoden had retreated into Meduseld, and there, he waited for the arrival of his guests. Aragorn, however, remained outside, for he was eager to greet his brothers. It went without saying that his friends stayed with him. They were, after all, members of the Fellowship sent out by Lord Elrond. Well, most of them were, although Logan never considered himself to be an outsider. After all, Elrond had not stopped him from going off to find the rest of the company, which meant that it was a form of passive consent, as far as he was concerned. The elven lord had even given him a parting gift.

While there were only thirty or so riders, they made an impressive sight. All of them were dressed in dark sombre colours; what colour they were, Logan could not tell, but from his vantage point, they looked grey. Their garments were worn from travel and stained with mud, but they held themselves proudly, as if they were the most elite of the elite. If the tales were to be believed, then they _were_ some of the most fearsome soldiers in Middle Earth, these men from the north. Dune-eh-dine, or something rather, Legolas had called them. Each one of them carried a longsword at his hip and a longbow on his back. Their plain leather quivers hung from their saddles, all of them fletched with different coloured feathers. Elladan and Elrohir stood out amongst this group of grim-faced men. It wasn't that they were overly cheerful —because they weren't. However, unlike the men, the sons of Elrond did not look as if they had not bathed for days. Maybe looking clean was an elven trait.

"Halbarad, Elladan, Elrohir!" called Aragorn as soon as the riders had reached the gate and were about to dismount. "What brings you here?"

"You do, kinsman!" shouted the man who was leading the group of riders. He looked a lot like Aragorn, although that could be attributed to the shaggy dark hair and the beard. Aragorn embraced him roughly and clapped him on the back.

"I have thought of you often, but you cannot know how surprised and glad I am that you are here."

"There is a war brewing, Aragorn," said the man called Halbarad. He returned the embrace, although only with one arm. In his left hand, he held a staff with a swathe of black fabric wrapped around it. "You did not think that we would miss it, did you? Nay, for we are you kinsmen, and when the time comes, we will ride with you into battle."

"I had no doubt that you would be there when the time comes, but I had not expected you so soon," said Aragorn as he released his friend. "What do you carry, Halbarad?"

"That, my brother, is a standard that our sister made for you, although why she asked Halbarad to deliver it, I do not know," said one of the sons of Elrond. Judging from the way he spoke and the gleam of his eye, Logan surmised that it was Elrohir, although he could not be sure. The two brothers were so alike. "The ways of females are beyond me."

There was some muted laughter at that comment as most of the men nodded in agreement, but there was little mirth in it and the men soon removed themselves to Meduseld to announce their arrival to Edoras, as custom dictated. It was so formal that Logan could not help but smirk at the fact that he was actually part of it. Usually, the Wolverine wasn't much for tradition, preferring to give authority the finger, or rather, the claw. Graduation day was the worst day of the year, in his opinion, and yet, here he was, participating in something much more ceremonial and formal than any graduation.

There was a lot of bowing and the introductions took a while to get through. Everyone had long names, and they seemed to like to go through their family trees, albeit in a succinct manner. He tried to keep track of who everyone was, but apart from learning Halbarad's name, simply because he was the man who was carrying Aragorn's flag, he soon got mixed up.

Aragorn did most of the introducing and explaining, not that he actually needed to explain much, for Théoden was more than happy to learn that these legendary warriors were going to join them in the fight against Sauron. Warriors were warriors, no matter how few, and if Aragorn was any example of the sort of fighters these rangers were, then Logan had no doubt that these thirty or so men would be worth more than three hundred orcs. It certainly heartened him that they were here.

He wished that he could ask some of _his _acquaintances to come and help, but as it was, he had no way of communicating with them. No doubt they would all come —they were that sort of people, after all, and if they weren't, Logan would simply threaten them into doing it— and they would be immensely helpful. Storm would be able to wreak havoc, and Bobby would freeze half the orcs, and— He shook himself out of that fantasy. It was not going to happen. He was the only mutant in this battle, and he would bloody well make sure that everyone would be impressed, although the horse-riding was still a bit of a problem. He felt and looked worse than a sack of potatoes strapped to the saddle when he was on a horse.

Logan was wondering about his problem with horses when someone tapped him on the shoulder so suddenly that he almost extended his claws. "Still as prickly as ever, I see," said a rather amused voice. Damn, it had to be an elf. Didn't these elves know that it was not a good idea to walk up on the Wolverine without making any noise? It would have been so easy to skewer one of them!

"Animal instincts," he said. "It's part of me, an' I won't deny it." He turned around to face the elf. He was pretty sure it was Elrohir, but it was hard to tell, and he wasn't ready to embarrass himself by calling him by the wrong name. After all, both Elladan and Elrohir had been the first elves to befriend him. He ought to be able to tell them apart by now.

"Well, are you not going to say how glad you are to see me?" asked the son of Elrond.

"I am..." Logan began. Oh, stuff it. There was a fifty-fifty chance that he would be right. "Elrohir. But you know me; I don't like to say things like that out loud."

"That I know," said the elf with a grin. "And I see you guessed correctly. Impressive, really, since we can fool Erestor if we put some effort into it, not that there is any point in doing that. I trust that you are well?"

"Yeah," said Logan. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and looked down at his shoes. Well, he wouldn't say that he was completely well, considering everything which had happened in the past few weeks and how confused he'd been. Physically, there was nothing wrong with him, but he had to admit that he'd had better mental states before. Still, he wasn't going to let anyone know about it.

"I am sorry about your brother," said Elrohir, growing more sombre. "I—no, forget it. I cannot imagine how you must be feeling."

"I try not to think about it too much," said Logan quickly, before they could go into any in-depth psychological analysis. "Is there any news from Rivendell?"

"Very little," said Elrohir. The grin was back. "Ever since you left, it has been rather quiet. Apart from our usual orc-hunting trips, things were rather dull until our grandmother sent word to Rivendell about the Dúnedain riding to meet Estel. However, there was one curious incident." The elf's grin widened. "I was asked to give something to you." He pulled out a small wrapped package and handed it over to Logan.

He quickly unwrapped it. Inside was a simple carved wooden pendant with a hole drilled at the top for a leather thong to pass through. He didn't remember seeing it, but he definitely recognized the lingering scent.

"One knows that the times are changing when maidens fear me but love you," said Elrohir. "And you, Logan Howlett, are a very lucky man."

* * *

**A/N: **There will be more action soon! I hope I got Denethor right. Out of all the characters in the Lord of the Rings, I can easily say that he is one of the characters I understand the least, and also one of the characters whom I have neglected in the past. Getting inside his head was a really daunting task.


	43. The Reckoning

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything that you recognize. It all belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien, New Line Cinema, Marvel and 20****th**** Century Fox.**

**Partypony: **Truth be told, I have more fun imagining Logan's face when he realizes that Scott's in Minas Tirith. As for Logan and Sidhien, they both have plenty of time to mull over their feelings. Well, maybe not so much Logan, since he'll be busy with other things. ;)

**Violet: **I didn't plan for Cyclops to be in the story. It was **Amba Gurl**'s idea. I don't think Rogue and Éowyn will ever meet since I really don't want to move Xavier's entire school to Middle Earth.

_Thank you for all the reviews. I really appreciate them. _

**Chapter 43: The Reckoning**

The fire was low in the hearth. Only a few people remained in the great hall; everyone else had retired for the night. If all went according to plan, then the Rohirrim were to set out the next morning. The remaining few were all gathered around one trestle table. Logan wasn't sure what the deal was with Aragorn, but the ranger was so grim that he seemed to have aged twenty years. The dim light accentuated the shadows beneath his eyes. Something was definitely troubling him. He glanced at Legolas; if there was anyone else besides Aragorn who knew what was going on, then it would be the elf. However, if Legolas noticed the way Logan was looking at him, he gave no indication of it.

For a while, no one said anything. They could all sense that there was something important going on. Finally, Aragorn broke the silence. "I shall not ride with you when you set out on the morrow, milord," he said, addressing Théoden.

"What has brought about this?" said the king. He sounded alarmed, as he had every right to be. Earlier that day, Aragorn had expressed every wish to ride to Minas Tirith with all haste.

"I must go to Minas Tirith by another road," said the ranger quietly. "The Paths of the Dead."

Murmurs spread through the gathered men, well, at least those who had not been in on the secret. Logan tried to get his head around the announcement. Did Aragorn just say that he was going to Hell or something? It made absolutely no sense, unless he was talking about suicide, but Aragorn was not someone who would do that. Then again, this was Middle Earth; maybe the Paths of the Dead didn't mean Hell at all.

"Why?" asked Théoden. "Lord Aragorn, this is folly! That is a cursed place, if it does exist at all. No man may pass through those doors."

"Be as it may, I must go," said Aragorn. "If we are to win this battle, we need the aid of the dead."

"Alas, I had hoped that we would draw swords together again, Lord Aragorn," said Éomer.

"We will yet have that chance, Lord Éomer," said Aragorn.

"Who goes with you?" asked Théoden.

"My brethren have said that they will come. I will not place an obligation on any man," said Aragorn. "Although those who wish it will come no matter what I say."

"Indeed, we shall," said Gimli. "You did not think you could leave me behind, did you?"

"Nor I," said Legolas. "You should know better than to doubt my persistence, and I am adamant that Gimli and I should follow you to whatever end."

"I have never doubted your persistence, my friend," said Aragorn. A tired smile graced his face, if only for a brief moment. His gaze fell on Logan, and so did everyone else's.

"I know this might sound stupid," said the Wolverine uncomfortably. Once again, he was going to show just how ignorant he was. "But what exactly are the Paths of the Dead and why do you need to go there?"

* * *

Cursed armies, binding oaths, ghosts; well, it wasn't as if he could expect any less. This was Middle Earth, after all, and the paranormal was, well, normal. Nobody seemed to like hearing the tale —they had probably all heard it sometime in the course of their lives— and Logan knew that Aragorn was shortening it for him. "Now you have heard it, Logan," said the ranger, who, if everything went according to plan, would soon be much more than just a ranger.

"Those must be some really pissed off phantoms," said the Wolverine before he could remember that he was in the presence of a king and several princes, and also sitting inside the great hall of what was essentially a palace. 'Pissed' was probably not the right word to use. As it was, everyone was staring at him and despite the sombre mood, some of them were actually grinning. Well, at least Aragorn was.

"I daresay they are 'pissed off', as you so eloquently put it," he said. "But then, that is beside the point."

"So you really have to go and get them, huh?" said Logan. He was torn. One side of him wanted to go with his friend because the Wolverine never abandoned those who were dear to him. On the other hand, he wasn't sure how he could help, apart from make bad jokes and give moral support. He would be much more useful if he rode with Théoden to Minas Tirith. After all, that had been what he had planned to do, and he'd promised Boromir that he'd get there as soon as possible. What was a man to do? He was no teleporter, nor did he have the power to be in several places at the same time, unlike some other mutants.

He flexed his hands, aware of how many people were watching him. 'Well, Logan,' he thought to himself. 'Analyze the situation'. One, he could be a good and supportive friend, tag along and generally be not very useful. Or two, he could ride to Minas Tirith, kill a bunch of orcs, and still be a good friend. He just didn't feel very good about leaving his friends to face whatever supernatural perils awaited them, that was all. "I..." he began. "My claws work better against live things than dead things." That was lame; really lame. If he'd been back at the school, the kids would've been sniggering. Still, it seemed to be a sufficient enough response. Aragorn nodded.

"I understand, my friend," he said. "If the Valar are smiling upon us, then our paths should not be separated for too long."

"When do you leave?"

"At first light."

* * *

It was a sombre breakfast. Only the Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli and Logan were there, and no one really ate anything. A sense of impending doom hung over their heads. The crackling from the fire was the loudest sound in the place. Logan felt that he ought to say something, but what could he say? 'Bye' was the most he could manage in such situations.

Suddenly, Legolas broke the silence. "Come, Gimli. I think we should prepare for our journey," he said. Logan raised an eyebrow. Surely someone as meticulous as Legolas would be prepared by now. The elf wasn't the type of person who would leave things to the last moment. Apparently, he wasn't the only one who was surprised, for Gimli choked on a mouthful of water and nearly spat it out.

"What do you mean?" demanded the dwarf. "I thought..." A look from Legolas silenced him.

"And I could use your help, Logan," the elf continued smoothly, all the while giving the Wolverine a series of looks which might have conveyed some meaning if Logan knew how to interpret them.

"I shall come with you," said Aragorn, getting ready to rise from his seat, but the elf placed a hand on his shoulder and pushed him back down.

"Nay, Estel," he said. "You should eat some more. You will need your strength."

Something was definitely up. Without a word, Logan followed Legolas and Gimli out of the Great Hall. Cold air slammed into Logan as soon as he walked out the door. A thick layer of mist lay over the ground, swirling lazily. His breaths came out in puffs of white. "What's goin' on?" he demanded. "And don't tell me you need help packing because I refuse to believe that you left it until now."

"Indeed, I am more than prepared for our journey," said Legolas, "but the Lady Éowyn was approaching, and I sensed that she needed a moment alone with Aragorn."

Gimli's eyes widened as understanding dawned on him. "Oh..." he said.

"What?" said Logan, who still had no idea what was happening.

"For the love of the Valar, Logan," said Legolas. "Surely you do not need me to say it out loud? Think about it. Aragorn is a fine man; honourable, handsome, as far as mortals go, and the son of a noble and ancient house."

"So you mean to say...?" said Logan. Well, there was no need to spell it out. Poor Éowyn probably had enough to deal with without three guys discussing her unrequited love for their friend. Logan certainly hadn't appreciated it when his students had discussed his feelings for Jean, and unlike him, Éowyn couldn't give them detention for three weeks.

* * *

Aragorn's company became nothing more than silhouettes in the distance. The sun had finally emerged, and its pale rays filtered through the slowly dissipating mist, not that it did anything to alleviate the tense atmosphere. Edoras was bustling with activity as horses were saddled and their shoes were checked to make sure that nothing would go wrong during the ride to Minas Tirith.

Logan had finally managed to exchange the Nag for a better-tempered animal, although he still wasn't entirely comfortable with it. After all, it was a horse, and it didn't seem to like him all that much. Upon entering the stall, his foot had almost been crushed beneath a hoof the size of a saucer. The only improvement was that this one wasn't trying to bite him. He swore beneath his breath as he kneed the horse's belly for the fourth time and tried to tighten the girth of the saddle. The stupid —or smart— beast was insisting on holding its breath so that the girth might be looser.

"You'd love it if I ended up hangin' upside down, wouldn't you?" he growled as the animal exhaled. He yanked on the girth straps before the horse could inhale again. Why would anyone want to put themselves through this voluntarily? Some of his students —Marie included— had been avid riders. He simply couldn't understand why anyone would prefer horses to motorbikes. After all, a bike wouldn't complain and it was a lot faster than any horse.

The bridle was much easier for him to manage. For one, it didn't need to be all that tight, so the horse did not put up so much resistance. Just as well, because Logan couldn't guarantee that he would be able to stop himself from skewering the thing if it had decided not to cooperate.

He caught a whiff of something on the air, besides horse and sweaty men, that was. He glanced over the low wooden wall which separated his horse's stall from that of another. There; that was the source of the scent. "You're gonna join us boys for the ride?" he said so quietly so that the only person who would hear him was the only one who was supposed to.

"You know?" came the whispered reply.

"Course I do," he said. He reached up and tapped his nose. "I might not know much about this place, but smells don't lie in either your world or mine. What exactly do you think you're doin' anyway?"

"You know it already," said Éowyn. Logan raised an eyebrow; from the sound of her increased heart rate and the smell of adrenaline, she was going on the defensive, not that he could blame her. "I will no longer remain behind and wait for news while the men fight and gain honour and renown. What do I have? When the bards write songs of our stand against Mordor, they will not speak of Éowyn who took up her uncle's seat in the Golden Hall. No, they will speak of the warriors who fought and died before Minas Tirith, those who shed their blood so that others may live unshackled. It is they who will have renown and they who will be honoured throughout all ages. There is nothing left for me here; my only wish is to die alongside my countrymen so that perhaps one day, someone might mention my name and know what I did."

"Is that it?" said Logan. He sensed that it wasn't. Emotions might confuse him sometimes, but after having spent so much time around young girls and their mood swings, he understood a bit more about them. No doubt Éowyn had told Aragorn of her feelings, and he, obviously, had told her that they could never have a future together. It wasn't the first time he had encountered such a situation.

"That is all you will say?" said Éowyn. She looked so confused that Logan had to bite back a grin. "You will not tell me that this is folly and that I should turn back and do my duty?"

"You're doin' the same thing as me, aren't you?" said Logan. "If I told you that, I'd be sayin' that I'm an idiot too, and I'm not."

"And you will not tell anyone else?"

"Look, I'm not your father and I'm not your brother. It's not in my place to tell you what you should or should not do." Logan looked her directly in the eye. It wasn't often that he got to give advice to others, but this was one of those moments. "I just hope you're doin' this for you and your country and not for some man. Whoever he is, he isn't worth it."

"You are indeed the strangest man I have ever encountered, Master Logan," said Éowyn. Was that a ghost of a smile? "I am forever indebted to you."

"Hah, don't thank me yet," said Logan. "If anything, this battle is gonna be uglier than Helm's Deep. You might wish I had made you go back and be a lady."

"If there is one thing I am certain about, then it is this," said Éowyn. "Whatever I decide today, I shall not regret it. I already regret too much."

* * *

The horses were ready, waiting outside in meticulous rows and columns. Rohan's banners of green and gold flew proudly in the wind, making it look as if the horses on them were alive. Then again, those banners represented the spirit of the Rohirrim, and they were more than ready to ride into battle, no matter the outcome. Obviously, they would prefer the outcome to be good, but even if it wasn't, they weren't afraid. These were true warriors, and their warrior spirit, apparently, was infectious.

Logan kept a tight grip on his reins. This horse wasn't as skittish and disagreeable as the Nag, but the mutual dislike between him and the animal was evident. Still, he did his best to try and look professional. Other riders noticed, and some of them gave him knowing grins. It was all in good cheer, but he couldn't help gritting his teeth. If only there was a car, or a motorbike. Then he would be able to show them a thing or two. The Wolverine could deal with machines, but he could not deal with big stubborn herbivores. To take his mind off it, he glanced back at the disguised Éowyn. It was lucky that Rohirrim helmets had a nosepiece. With her delicate features, it would impossible for someone observant not to notice that she was a woman. He could sense her nervousness. "You're gonna be fine," he muttered. It was drowned in the din created by the men and the horses, but she seemed to know that he was trying to reassure her, and she gave him a slight forced smile.

"Logan!" He turned as he heard someone call his name. It was Merry, and much to Logan's surprise, the hobbit was wearing armour similar to that of the Rohirrim. He hadn't thought that there would be any which could fit him. He was riding on a grey pony with sturdy legs, and doing it quite skilfully. At least, he was a much better rider than Logan could ever hope to be. On his head was a small round helm of leather and metal, complete with the distinctive nosepiece which was shaped like the head of a horse. He had even found himself a shield which he could hold. If the situation had not been so serious, Logan would have laughed. Merry looked just like a miniature knight.

"What are you doing?" asked Logan as Merry drew closer. "What's going on?"

"They want to leave me behind," said the hobbit. He seemed to be extremely irritated by it, not that Logan could blame him. Everyone else was involved, so why should Merry be left out? After all, he and Pippin had helped them win the battle of Helm's Deep. "King Théoden said that it was because they need to reach Gondor with all haste and that a pony could not possibly keep up with horses, but I think that is just a kinder reason. He probably believes that war is no place for a hobbit, and maybe he is right, but all my friends are out there, and I want to fight!"

"Then he shall ride with me," said Éowyn. She stared at Logan, as if daring him to contradict her, but Logan had no reason to. If Merry wanted to fight, then it was his choice and no one could tell him what he could or could not do. As his friend, Logan's only responsibility was to watch his back.

"Better you than me," said the Wolverine with a shrug. He couldn't control his horse at the best of times. With another person before him, he would very likely lose control entirely and get the two of them killed.

"Milady?" said Merry, noticing for the first time that the young warrior behind Logan was not what he, or rather, she, seemed to be.

"It's Dernhelm," said Éowyn as she helped Merry up into the saddle in front of her.

"Dernhelm it is, then," said Merry with a grin.

"Whatever," muttered Logan, although he was grinning too. Breaking the rules had a certain appeal that never grew old. "It's just another name that I'll probably never remember."

* * *

Minas Tirith was magnificent to behold, but Pippin was in no mood to properly appreciate it, especially since it was hard to avoid seeing Mordor in the distance. Every time he saw the high cliffs and the dark clouds stained with unnatural reds and oranges, he thought of his cousin and his friend. Where were Frodo and Sam now?

He was growing increasingly restless. The whole city was bustling with activity; people were building giant machines to throw stones and jars filled with flammable substances down on potential attackers, making arrows, forging swords. Everyone had something to do, except him. They had mentioned something about his inexperience and alluded to how his size would be a disadvantage in battle. In his view, that was not fair at all. For one, he had helped the men to win the Battle of Helm's Deep. That had to count for something, right? And Gimli wasn't that much taller than he was; the dwarf was simply a lot sturdier and a lot more experienced. How was Pippin to get any experience if he was left out of everything?

He peered over the side of the wall. The orcs were going to come soon; everyone knew that. It was just a matter of when exactly. Men had started arriving from the provinces. Not a lot, but at least the lords of Gondor were contributing whatever they could without leaving their own fiefs entirely vulnerable. All in all, about two thousand men had come to the aid of Minas Tirith, less than one tenth than what they had hoped for and not all of them were skilled soldiers, but any help had been welcomed with great fanfare.

"Pippin!" The hobbit whipped around, surprised that anyone had remembered him. He was even more surprised when he realized that the person calling to him was Boromir. Didn't Boromir have to be in seven places at once? Indeed, there were several people following him, and Pippin presumed that they had business to discuss with the Heir of the Steward. It was most odd that Boromir would even remember him. "You are just the hobbit I was looking for," said the man when he reached Pippin.

"I am the _only_ hobbit in the city," said Pippin.

"I know, and I am glad that it is you," said Boromir. "You want something to do, yes?"

"Of course!" said Pippin. "Have you changed your mind? Are you going to let me fight?"

"Not quite, but I think this will be an acceptable compromise," he said. He motioned at the group of men following him, and one of them stepped forward, leading a man who had a blindfold around his eyes. Pippin frowned. What was the Captain of the White Tower playing at? Surely there was no time for mischief. "This is Scott, Logan's friend."

* * *

It was the oddest partnership in the world, of that Scott was certain, but it seemed to please everyone and he definitely had no objection to it, even though he was about to become the first human laser gun or something like that. The plan was simple. Pippin wanted something to do, and Scott could not work on his own since he could not see, so Pippin was in charge of 'aiming' him at any oncoming enemy siege towers or the like.

Lord Boromir had had to leave them in a hurry, which was no surprise to anyone because he was a man in demand. Besides, Pippin knew enough for them to be able to have a starting point in their discussion and he wasn't afraid to ask questions, no matter how awkward they were. Scott quickly came to like the 'hobbit', as Pippin called himself and his kind. His open and cheerful manner was a gift in these dark times.

* * *

They came, the pestilence from the east. A broil of dark fumes went before them to veil the sun's rays. They needed no standards, no insignia; all the world knew who they were. The seething black mass spread over the green fields before Minas Tirith. Their spears glinted dully, most already stained with old blood.

Boromir watched them come. His was gripping the hilt of his sword so tightly that the pattern on the hilt had been ingrained into his palm, not that he took any notice of it. It seemed as if all of Mordor had been emptied, but in his heart, he knew that many more waited behind the walls of the dark land. Drum beats resounded across the Fields of Pelennor and the call of the orcs' horns made many a brave soldier flinch. The numbers alone were intimidating enough, but that was not all. Trolls and other strange horned beasts with leathery skin laboured beneath the lash, pulling siege towers and mangonels behind them. The towers had been covered with rawhide so that they would not easily burn. He found some comfort in knowing that no rawhide could prevent those towers from being decimated by Scott Summers' eyes. Unfortunately, Scott could only shoot 'fire' a certain number of times before he needed rest. Unlike Logan, quick regeneration was not one of his powers.

Gandalf came up from behind him. "So it truly begins," said the wizard. Boromir spared him a glance. The wizard's face was troubled, almost like that time in Moria when he had realized that the Balrog had woken.

"Indeed, 'tis the beginning of the end," said Boromir. "Mordor cannot stand while the free peoples of Middle Earth do. There is not enough room for both."

"You seem calm," said the wizard.

"Yes, I _seem_ calm," said Boromir. "But I cannot deny that my heart beats so loudly that I can hardly hear myself think at times. However, no one can know that. I have to be strong for Gondor. We all do."

The men were as ready as they could ever be. The archers under Faramir were readying their bows. In front of them was a line of shield-bearing infantry, who would be their only defence against the orcs' arrows. He caught Faramir's eye and the two brothers exchanged grim smiles. The reckoning had come and they both knew it. All they could hope for was that they would be able to hold out until reinforcements arrived.

Boromir held up his hand to stop some of the less experienced men who were operating Minas Tirith's catapults from launching stones and jars of burning tar at the enemy. The orcs were not yet within range and there was no point in wasting ammunition, especially since they had not been able to prepare as much as Boromir had hoped. Mad bombardment was not an option.

Steam rose from the cauldrons of boiling water placed at regular intervals along the wall. There were also jars of oil and distilled alcohol, and burning braziers. These were for when the enemy got close enough to prop up ladders against the wall. Even a troll could not continue to fight if most of its skin had been cooked.

He glanced up at the sky. The Nazgûl and their foul winged steeds were not yet in sight, but it was only a matter of time before they emerged to swoop down on Minas Tirith like birds of prey diving in for the kill. Archers were rather ineffectual against those beasts, unless they were archers with the skill of Legolas. It was a pity that the elves were unlikely to come to their aid this time as they had done in Helm's Deep. Gondor could do with a contingent of elven archers.

He took a deep breath. His men needed courage, and who would give it to them if not him? He unsheathed his sword and lifted it to the darkened sky in defiance. Sauron might have the advantage right now, but Boromir of Gondor was never going to admit defeat. As far as he was concerned, he had died once, and he was not afraid to do so again if his death would have meaning.

"My brothers!" he shouted. "This day, Gondor's quality shall be proven. This is the hour when our fate will be determined, and I tell you now that in the years to come, no one shall say that our spirit broke in the face of overwhelming adversity! What are we? We are sons of Gondor! In our veins run the noble blood of men who, long ago, faced this same enemy and defeated him! The foundations of this nation were laid when they marched upon Orodruin and challenged Sauron himself in his own land! If we shed blood, then we do so for Gondor. If we lay down our lives, then it is for Gondor's sake! I do not ask you to protect these stones! No, my brothers. I ask you to fight for your mothers and fathers, your sons and daughters, your brothers and sisters, your wives, and all that you hold dear! For them we live and for them we die! For Gondor!"

The deafening cheers merged with one another until they resembled a single roar of defiance. Let Sauron see them and quake! Boromir's heart warmed at the sight of all these men from every class in society, united in their hatred for Mordor and, more importantly, their love for the country which had nursed them, raised them, and made them what they were. Their courage fed his courage, and he raised his voice in unison with theirs. From the corner of his eye he saw a small smile creep over Gandalf's face. The wizard could feel it to. No matter what they lost, they would never lose their dignity.

The armies of Mordor stopped just outside the city, surrounding it entirely. There were no breaks in their ranks, although their formations were also decidedly simple. However, the sheer number made up for their lack of sophistication. Even ants could overwhelm a stag when there were enough of them.

For a moment, neither side moved, although no one was under the illusion that things would stay that way. The horns of the orcs sounded once more, harsh and discordant. The sound grated on the ears of the defenders.

Rocks flew from the mangonels in lazy arcs, only to fall down upon the outer wall with appalling speed. Some of them fell short, but not all. Men ducked to avoid the stones and the flying debris as parts of the wall were smashed. One piece of rubble barely missed Boromir's head. Still, he did not give the motion for their catapults to be fired; they needed to make sure that their ammunition hit something of consequence. It was frustrating, and instinct was screaming at him to retaliate, but one mistake from him could mean the fall of Minas Tirith, and he wasn't ready to risk that. "Hold!" he shouted to the men. "They are too far!"

It didn't sit well with the men, but they had faith in him. He hoped that their faith was not misplaced. The archers evidently did not have such a problem, for they let loose a volley. Their arrows could not compare with the projectiles of the orcs, but there was some satisfaction in seeing the foremost orcs fall. It was but a drop of water in an ocean. However, the sight encouraged the Gondorians.

Boromir narrowed his eyes. Seeing that the Gondorians were not retaliating as much as they had expected, the orcs had become bolder. Their mangonels ceased firing as they pushed their siege towers closer and closer to the wall...

"Now!" he shouted. There was a collective wooden groan as Minas Tirith's catapults started moving. Stones and jars of sulphur and tar were launched into the air. The flaming projectiles resembled falling stars against the darkened sky. Men cheered as one of the stones struck a siege tower, smashing it into splinters. The jars of tar and sulphur smashed on the ground and exploded. The scent of burnt flesh filled the air as orcs were consumed by flames. Elsewhere, the stones caused the orcs to lose their formations and almost caused them to break ranks, although the orc masters were quick enough to force their soldiers back into lines and columns through the use of threats.

A red beam shot out, striking not one, but three trolls, dismembering them upon impact and sending the pieces flying backwards. He really couldn't have chosen a better partner for Scott; Pippin's aim was excellent.

The ranks of the orcs parted, but that was only so that those carrying ladders could pass through. Boromir had to be thankful that these were only common orcs and not Uruk Hai. These ladders did not have the sophisticated mechanisms employed by Saruman's forces, and could only be used in the most conventional way.

"Oil, now!" he cried. The noxious black liquid splashed down onto the orcs and their ladders, and then flaming torches were thrown down. The oil ignited instantly. The orcs screeches rent the air as they were burned to death. Black smoke rose, burning the throats of those who breathed in too much of it and making them choke. The front line of orcs fell away, only to be replaced by another. It was a never ending cycle, and Boromir was running out of things to burn. Sooner or later, some of those foul beasts would make it to the top of the wall. He could only hope that it would be later.

* * *

**A/N: **Boromir's speech was inspired by Balian of Ibelin's from the movie _Kingdom of Heaven_. There wasn't much close up action in this chapter, but I hope you enjoyed it anyway.


	44. Turning Point

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything that you recognize. It all belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien, New Line Cinema, Marvel and 20****th**** Century Fox. **

**Amba gurl: **I'm still working on Scott's back story. He gets to reveal it after the battle and when everyone has time to talk.

**Chapter 44: Turning Point**

Damn it! Of all the times for him to run out of energy, this had to be it! And according to Pippin, some trick of the Dark Lord had blocked the sun, so that it would take a long time for him to recharge, if he could do it at all. However, blessings came in strange disguises. For the first time, Scott could open his eyes and actually look at the city in which he had lived in for three years. The sheer scale of Minas Tirith and its magnificence almost stole his breath away; it was a pity that he could not see it under better circumstances.

Seething black swarms were teeming at the foot of the walls. Scott had never seen anything like it. These creatures, whatever they were, looked like things which ought to belong in artists' depictions of Hell. They were streaming up ladders like termites in documentaries about Africa, and they were about as numerous. He had no time to be surprised or shocked; here he was, an unarmed man in the middle of a vicious siege. He was extremely vulnerable, and he wasn't the only one who had realized that.

All around him, men in blood spattered armour were struggling against the intruders. So these were the people who had taken him in and given him a home. Scott almost forgot about being in a war as he took in everything. The men's swords were long, with wide guards and pointed blade. He was immediately reminded of thirteenth or fourteenth century artefacts, although he was hardly able to mull on the details of medieval weaponry for long.

"Look out!" shouted someone. He recognized the voice as belonging to Pippin, although he didn't bother to look around for the hobbit. There were more pressing matters to worry about, such as the monster that was charging at him with a raised battle axe. Years of training and instinct took over. Scott dropped and swept out with a leg, effectively tripping his assailant. Before the creature could recover, he'd grabbed the creature's head and twisted it violently. There was a sickening crack as its neck was snapped. His actions had caught the attentions of some of the other dark creatures, and he jerked back just in time to avoid getting his throat slashed by a scimitar. The beast tried to strike again, but Scott was prepared this time. He grabbed the creature's wrist as it lunged and then delivered a blow to the creature's elbow with the heel of his other hand. The ligaments snapped, forcing the creature to drop its weapon. It's screech of pain made Scott want to plug his ears, but if he really tried, he could withstand horrific noise. Normal hearing was a blessing sometimes. He scooped up the scimitar. It wasn't well made and it felt awkward in his hand, but at least he was no longer unarmed. He could replace it later when he got the opportunity.

"Well?" he said. "Anyone else?" The creatures hesitated; their survival instincts were kicking in. However, they did not seem to be entirely without analytical skill, which was unfortunate because it didn't take all that much intelligence or knowledge of mathematics to see that it would be easy enough to overwhelm him with numbers. He decided not to wait until those creatures had gathered enough courage to attack him en masse. The best defence was an offence, as Logan often liked to say —he could not believe he was taking lessons from the Wolverine— and Scott was going to make this a good one.

He lunged forward, arm extended, scimitar pointing behind him with the sharp edge facing outwards. These creatures obviously hadn't seen such a technique before because they didn't seem to know how to react, which was just as well, because Scott had been counting on their surprise. With movements too fast to be followed by the naked eye, he slashed open the throats of three of those creatures. Black blood splashed onto his hand and sprayed on his face. Scott wasn't a stranger to blood, but this stench was beyond bad. There was something so foul about it that he briefly wondered if this blood was poisonous. However, death by poison seemed to be the least of his worries because a well-aimed blow could kill him much more quickly.

He ducked as one of the braver creatures charged at him and then using the beast's own momentum, threw it over his shoulder. Despite the dire situation, Scott could not help but feel a surge of elation. Yes, Scott Summers really was back and doing what he had been trained to do.

* * *

The big folk had been right; battle was really no place for an inexperienced hobbit like him. Pippin had no idea what he was supposed to do. He wasn't supposed to be here, holding a short sword and wearing the armour the Steward had ordered for Faramir when he had been a boy. Everywhere he looked, men and orcs were falling. They were all trained to fight, whereas Pippin had only had a few lessons from Boromir. He'd killed orcs before, of course, but only a few, and back then, he'd been with the rest of the Fellowship. He ducked behind a pillar as an orc fell dangerously close to where he was. So far, no one had noticed him; being small had its advantages. The din was deafening, and the more he saw and heard, the more he wanted to run back to the relative safety of the Citadel. Surely no one would blame him.

'Now is too late for regret, Peregrin Took!' he scolded himself. He pushed aside the notion of even running. He had volunteered for this and he was going to see it through. It was the least he could do. The Lady Galadriel had told him that he would find courage when the time came. Well, this was definitely the time, in his opinion. He could not just go back to being Pippin Took of Tuckborough, not after everything he'd seen and been through. Besides, all of Middle Earth was involved in this war, and there was little enough hobbit representation as it were. He thought of Frodo and Sam. Pippin wanted to do _something _to help them.

The only thing was, he wasn't sure if he'd help or hinder the struggle. The men knew him by sight, and if he was threatened, he knew they would try to help him, even if it meant risking their lives. Honourable people were like that. The proportion of men and orcs were growing more and more uneven with each passing moment. One of those foul creatures on the wall was using its short curved bow to great effect. It took aim, pointing the black arrow at Scott.

Pippin knew he had to act, and he had to act quickly. Jumping out from his hiding place, he cut the back of the creature's knee, causing it to screech and fall. Its arrow went wide. Before it could recover, the hobbit had stabbed it in the neck, one of the spots its armour could not protect.

The orc keeled over with a gurgle. For a moment, Pippin was stunned. Then he recovered enough to pull his sword out of the corpse. Black blood dripped from his blade. Pippin stared at it. He felt lightheaded; this was his first kill in a proper battle. He was actually a soldier now. Who would have thought? Then he realized he had no time to be dazed, because his heroics had caught the attention of many, and some of them were not friendly.

A screech rent the air, causing Pippin to cover his ears in a hurry. The sound chilled his bones; he remembered such cries clearly, for they signalled the coming of the Nazgûl. They swoop down from the broil of dark fumes in the sky, eight of them, each riding a dark winged beast. Their black robes billowed out behind them as they circled the city, sometimes diving down to attack the men. The beasts snatched them from their posts with giant talons and then let them fall once they were high in air. Catapults were broken. Men scattered whenever the beasts dived. Some of the archers tried to bring them down with arrows, but they were nothing to the creatures. They could easily fly out of range, and if an arrow should hit one, the beast took it as if it was nothing but a pinprick.

However, the Nazgûl mostly circled above the city, instilling fear in the defenders. Perhaps that was even more damaging, for the prospect of death was far worse than death itself. The men lost courage, lost hope, and it seemed that some even lost the will to fight and live. Only the persistence and the strength of the commanders kept them going. Men seemed to be invigorated whenever they saw Boromir, Faramir, or any of the other lords. Gandalf's presence did much to bolster their courage as they believed that having the White Wizard on their side gave them some advantage.

Pippin was one of those who felt that way. Surely it had to mean something. After all, Gandalf had defeated that Balrog and come back from the dead. However, as they day wore on, he began to doubt if Gandalf's presence was enough to counter the malice of Mordor.

* * *

Night fell, and the situation only worsened. The increased darkness gave the orcs even more of an advantage, and the lack of stars seemed to bolster their confidence. Their torches had been lit, and the sea of flames below the city made the orcs seem even more numerous than during the day. Every now and then, a loud boom would resound throughout the city as the giant battering ram, shaped like the head of a wolf and with fire in its mouth, crashed against the gates of the outer wall. For now, the gates held, but it would not hold for much longer?

The foundations of Minas Tirith shook as the battering ram crashed into the gates once again. The wood was splintering. Boromir and Gandalf had mustered as many men as they could and they were all gathered before the gates, preparing for the moment when the wolf's head would break through. Those who were not capable of prolonged close combat had been sent to the second level. Retreat was inevitable; it was simply a matter of how long they could delay it.

The men's courage was fading. Boromir stubbornly clung onto hope and the belief that his friends and allies would arrive in time. Minas Tirith's catapult fired another volley of stones; rubble was one thing they would not run out of any time soon. He glanced at Gandalf, his uncle Imrahil of Dol Amroth, along with some of the other lords who had elected to stay and fight side by side with their men and were capable of doing so, and then backwards at his soldiers. Scott was there among them, without his blindfold. It was a pity that his fire had been spent, because they really could use some unnatural help right now. Speaking of unnatural help, the Rohirrim ought to arrive soon, possibly by the next day, if they were lucky enough. If Minas Tirith could hold out until then... No, it was not a matter of 'if'. There was no room for doubt. They had no other choice but to hold out.

The gates trembled, and then with one final blow, they splintered.

* * *

It was chaotic on the first level. Blazing flames lit up the night, giving the fighters ample light to see by. The orcs were too numerous and there were only so the Gondorians could kill before they had to retreat. Arrows were flying in both directions, making it a hazard simply to stand up. His sword rang as he parried the downward blow of an orcish axe. Faramir could feel the vibration in his bones. He feinted to one side, causing his enemy to stumble. It was only a slight delay, but it was all that he needed. He brought his sword up and then cut downwards. Hot black blood spurted out, staining his hands. There was no time to care, or even think about the stench; at any rate, he was used to it. He dropped and rolled to avoid being cleaved in half by an overly enthusiastic wielder of a curved sabre and then, with a low swipe, he cut the orc's legs out from beneath it, causing the creature to shriek in pain. It toppled over as Faramir scrambled to his feet. The flagstones of the streets were growing slick with blood, of both men and orcs, and it was becoming difficult to maintain one's balance.

More of those foul creatures were pouring in through the broken gates, like ants swarming up the sides of a mortally wounded beast, except Gondor was not quite at that stage yet, or if she was, Faramir would not accept it. Black blood formed a sticky lattice over the surface of his blade and droplets flew from it as he swung it in a wide arc, decapitating yet another enemy. He wasn't sure how long he could keep this up, but as long as he still had breath left in him, he would never stop fighting. However, there was only so much he could concentrate at a time. The enemy were too many, and they were coming at him from all directions.

A warg charged at him, slavering jaws open, revealing huge yellow fangs. Faramir dropped and rolled beneath the beast before plunging his sword deep into its belly. It howled in pain as it collapsed. The man only managed to scramble away in time. His sword, however, remained embedded in the creature. It was not a good situation. An unarmed man was a vulnerable man, and they all knew it. He quickly snatched up a discarded axe of orcish design. It was unbalanced and heavy, but it would have to do until he could find some way to retrieve his own weapon.

Faramir knew that he was wielding it with little grace. Being a nobleman, he spent little time with the weapons of infantry, and right now, he was regretting it. He was so occupied with trying to defend those enemies who were fighting at close range that he heard Boromir's shout too late.

* * *

Boromir pushed aside orcs and men alike, with no thought for his own safety. His fear narrowed his vision, blocking out everything else except the sight of his brother and those two arrows speeding towards him. It was not Faramir's time. It was supposed to have been him! Had fate been averted so that it could be played out again, this time on his younger brother's person? His heart was beating so loudly that he could hardly hear anything else. He was moving too slowly. He could never reach Faramir in time!

He saw the arrows strike their target, one after the other. He saw his brother stumble backwards, and then fall to his knees. All the world seemed to fade away. He only saw his brother. Boromir rushed to Faramir's side only to find that Gandalf had gotten there first and had caught the younger man before he could fall to the flagstones. The men had seen, and were rallying around them, forming an impenetrable wall of shields, spears and bared blades.

"Brother!" said Boromir. His voice cracked as he spoke. "Please, look at me. Come on! Look at me!"

Faramir's eyes —so like their mother's— slowly opened. They were unfocused, and his pupils were dilated. He opened his mouth to say something, but his feeble whisper was drowned out by the din of battle. Gandalf felt the young man's pulse and then placed a hand on his forehead.

"The arrows must have been poisoned," said the wizard. "He is becoming fevered. Hurry! We must get him to the Houses of Healing immediately."

Boromir looked at the wizard and then turned his attention back to his brother before glancing all around him. It was a losing battle. The orcs were quickly overwhelming them. If they remained on the first level, they would all be slaughtered. "Retreat!" he shouted. "To the second level!"

* * *

He was reaching the end of his patience. These horses were so slow and the goddamned saddles were uncomfortable! In fact, they were not well suited to male anatomy at all! How did the Rohirrim manage to ride as if they were one with their horses? It was beyond his understanding. Hell, some of them had even managed to change horses in mid-gallop, somehow swinging over into the other saddle as if it was as easy as changing seats in a bus. Actually, they did it with a little bit more ease. Apparently, those were the ones who had grown up as nomads; because of the nature of their lifestyles, they were even closer to their horses than normal Rohirrim were, and the animals seemed to reciprocate that feeling, because they moved in complete synchronization with their riders.

At the front of the company, Théoden had called for a brief rest. The king knew that it was impossible for any warrior to ride for days on end and still arrive at his destination. Logan more or less fell off his horse, glad to be out of the saddle after so many hours. He was still not used to this, and he doubted he ever would get used to it. Heck, he didn't intend to ride for long enough to get used to it. There had to be other modes of transport in this place, right?

They had come to a part of the road where trees rose on either side. Their foreboding shapes swayed in the wind and the rustling of their leaves sounded like whispers, making it seem as if they were taking part in some ancient ritual which had existed before the first word had ever been uttered.

As the men got out their bedrolls and tried to get some sleep, Théoden, Éomer and the other commanders had gathered in a tight group to discuss their plan of action. Of course, they did not know they had an additional passive participant, or if they did, they simply did not care. Logan really didn't mean to eavesdrop, but the platoon of men he had been riding with were making camp close enough to the commanders that he could hear every word. It was not his fault that his hearing was so keen.

The idea was to go around the city and then come in from the east so that the orcs would be cut off from Mordor and would have to fight a battle on two fronts. It sounded like a good plan, but from what Logan remembered, such a strategy worked best if the numbers were more balanced. Then again, everything worked better when the numbers were balanced. He just hoped that there would be enough bread to make the sandwich. He kept his thoughts to himself. If they didn't, there was very little they could do about it. Tactics and strategies were not his strengths; he had a basic understanding of them, but when it came to strategic planning, he'd always left it up to people like Storm and One Eye. He preferred to run in with guns blazing —or rather, claws brandished— and then deal with things as they came along. Surely Théoden and his generals knew what they were doing.

"Our scouts report that a large force of orcs and Easterlings have gathered further up the road and are waiting for us," said Éomer. His voice was grim and hard, with barely veiled frustration, not that anyone could blame him. If the Wolverine had been in his place, he would not have worded it so politely. Then again, Éomer was a nobleman, and they had different upbringing from most people. "They have set up stakes and dug trenches along the road. Furthermore, they have cast iron picks on the ground, hoping to cripple our horses before we can ever reach them. We will not be able to sweep upon them all at once."

"That is ill news indeed," said Théoden. The discussion would have gone on if drums did not suddenly sound. The dull thuds, probably from primitive instruments, arose from the forest around them. The men were immediately alert. Swords were unsheathed, and Logan extended his claws as he sniffed the night breezes, trying to locate the threat. All he smelled were trees, dirt, men and horses. No orcs, but there was something else out there; something utterly alien to Logan.

While tensions were high, nothing actually happened, for the drums died down again, and soon, Logan could hear muted murmurs. Someone had come into the Rohirrim camp and was speaking to the king. The voice he heard was deep, and whoever it was, he spoke with a clipped accent which made his speech sound rough. His grasp of grammar was also dubious and there were some very strange words thrown into the mix. However, the general meaning was clear enough. He wanted to speak to Théoden, whom he called the 'father of all horsemen', about something to do with gorgons. Was Middle Earth now plagued by monsters which had previously only existed in Greek mythology? As if goblins and trolls and Balrogs were not enough!

As he listened, he learned that 'gorgon', in fact, did not refer to monstrous women with snakes for hair, but to orcs. The stranger was proposing an alliance between his people, whom he called the 'Wild Men'. Apparently, they'd lived in the surrounding forest since time immemorial and had never minded much business outside of their woods, but now, they feared the return of the Dark Lord, and they wanted to do something about it. It was a sentiment which Logan could understand.

"We fight not," said the Wild Man to Théoden.

"Then how will you help us?" asked Éomer. "We have need of more allies in battle."

"We watch," said the Wild Man. Logan had not managed to catch his name. Either it had not been mentioned, or it was too long and unpronounceable. "Wild Men see far. We climb hills and look out to stone-city. We bring you news. _Gorgûn_ and men from faraway have placed themselves on horsemen's road. We can lead you through other path."

"There is another path?" said Théoden. His question sounded rather sharp, but that could be because he was eager to get more information, as they all were.

"Old road," said the Wild Man. "All have forgotten it except the Wild Men. The other end is at horsemen's road. Horsemen go around _gorgûn_ and pits. We lead you." Logan's suspicions were roused. What if this was a trap, and this Wild Man was leading them into an ambush?

"How do we know we can trust you?" said Éomer, who apparently had the same concerns as Logan, only he was actually in a position to voice those concerns. He definitely was not as subtle as his uncle, who would have worded the question in a different way to avoid offending a potential ally.

"I am Ghân-buri-Ghân, great chieftain of Wild Men," said stranger. It was not hard to tell from his tone that he felt rather insulted that Éomer saw the need to question his honour. In fact, it was as if the man made no effort to hide it at all, something which caused Logan to trust him just a bit more. A trickster would have a smoother manner. "I lead you myself, and if I trick you, you kill me." Well, that was definitely straightforward. Maybe the man was trustworthy, after all.

It was decided; there was no way they could get past the blockade of orcs and their human allies without losing too many of their own. The alternative road, apparently, was not too much of a detour and Éomer had estimated that it would take ten hours to reach the end of it. Although they would not be able to go to Minas Tirith's aid within the day, they would be able to launch their offensive the next morning, after they had rested and were ready to fight. Considering the circumstances, it was the best possible option.

* * *

Logan smelled the smoke and heard the sounds of bombardment before he could even see anything. He immediately tensed as instinct kicked in. Fatigue and discomfort was forgotten the sounds and smells triggered the innate need to defend those he considered to be dear to him. He let out a low growl, gaining the attention of several warriors near to him.

The land was covered by what could only be called smog. Oily fires from the burning city had produced thick dark smoke, and that had merged with the fog from the river, creating a grey veil which covered everything. However, the situation was clear enough. As they came over the last hillock, Logan caught sight of flames in the near distance, shining like the candle of a Will o' Wisp. It was a beacon which called for them to stand forth and fight, and could probably also be a beacon leading them to their deaths. Either way, the Rohirrim were going to answer that challenge.

Logan glanced back at Éowyn and Merry. Throughout the journey, no one had suspected that 'Dernhelm' was not a man and everyone had ignored Merry's presence as if he'd been baggage. It was a source of relief and annoyance for Merry, for no one liked to be treated as if he was a sack of potatoes. However, relief, and worry for his friends won over, and he'd been rather quiet about it. Right now, however, they were both so nervous that it was impossible to mistake them as anything but novices in battle, at least as far as Logan was concerned. He could hear their rapid breathing and increased heart rate very clearly.

The smog cleared away quickly enough as the sun rose behind them, and they were able to survey the entire scene before them. Swarms of orcs surrounded the city, with absolutely no break in the ranks. Flames consumed the lower levels of the once grand city which would fill even modern architects with awe. If the Rohirrim did not do something soon, there was no doubt that Minas Tirith would fall.

A horn sounded, rallying the riders. They quickly formed their lines, stretching out their ranks as widely as possible so that the orcs could not flank them. The odds were beyond terrible, but Logan refused to let himself be discouraged. He'd faced worse situations and won. The best defence was an offence, and that was exactly what the Rohirrim were doing. He just hoped that he'd be able to stay in the saddle long enough to join in the offence. The last charge, for him, had been a bit of a disaster.

The king's inspirational speech was brief, but to the point. For death, glory and freedom. He called on the Rohirrim to ride proudly, to remember the feat of their ancestors and to honour the noble blood which ran in their veins. He called for death to their enemies, and for them to show no mercy. The Rohirrim soon took up the cry. No one expected to live on, except as names in the annals of history. Thousands of weapons and voices were raised as they shouted one single word, and the thunderous roar rang out across the fields. Their unbending spirit, their lack of fear, woke the beast within the Wolverine. He raised one fist, claws extended, into the air and lent his voice to the united battle cry.

"Death!"

* * *

They heard the horn, the cries, and their enemy was intimidated. Even the Witch-King, as great as he was, could not ignore this. It was with much relief that Boromir saw him ride away, borne by his foul winged steed. Apparently, there were more pressing matters than subduing the stubborn White Wizard, such as subduing an entire nation of defiant horselords, a determined dwarf, an elf with an odd sense of humour, the Heir of Isildur and one extremely persistent Wolverine. He had always known that his faith in his allies and friends was not misplaced, and they had proven him right.

As the Rohirrim's cries rang out once more, hope was rekindled in the heart of Gondor.

* * *

**A/N: **I hope you enjoyed the chapter.


	45. Law of the Jungle

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize. It all belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien, New Line Cinema, Marvel and 20****th**** Century Fox. **

**Vballmania23: **Well, somebody had to get hurt. ;) Poor Faramir just happened to be the unlucky one.

**Partypony: **My motto for writing crossovers is 'change what you have to, but don't make unnecessary changes'. I don't like deviating from the original story too much because I don't want to change the outcome and every little change matters when it comes to the final result, so I have to be careful. We get lots of Logan in this chapter so I don't think you'll be disappointed. :)

**Amba gurl: **On Wikipedia, it says that Scott can run out of his powers and needs sunlight to recharge. I took it to mean direct exposure to sunlight, since I really need to find a way to limit his powers, or else he'd end up turning the tables entirely and beating back the orcs all on his own. I can't have that.

**Violet: **I'm glad you're still enjoying it. :D

_Warning: Bad language_

**Chapter 45: Law of the Jungle**

The animal surged beneath him, its powerful muscles rippling as its hooves ate up the ground beneath it. The only thing Logan could do was clench his teeth and hope that he could hold on until the two armies clashed. Just as well he didn't need to guide the horse. He was clinging on to everything he could; the mane, the pommel, the reins. Arrows were raining down on them as the orcs sought to hold back the wave of Rohirrim. The horse in front of Logan fell, and Logan, not being the best rider in the world, almost flew out of the saddle as his horse swerved to avoid its fallen comrade. However, he had known that something like this would happen. It was rather hard to for a horse to throw its rider if the rider was holding onto the saddle with both hands for dear life. Not that Logan even thought that he was going to die from a mere fall, but it was embarrassing if he failed yet another charge simply because of his lack of skill in the saddle.

They drew closer and closer; through the gaps between the many riders in front of him, Logan saw the dull glint of orcish pikes and shields with a crude pattern painted in red. He thought it looked like an eye, but he couldn't be sure, nor did he care enough to pay more attention to it. Horses screamed and men let loose cries of pain and rage as the two sides clashed. The orcs' frontline broke, but the ones behind held, due to the fact that they were packed so tightly there was nowhere for the orcs to run even if they did want to. Horse somersaulted and landed on their backs. Others were skewered by long spears made especially for that purpose.

Logan's horse reared just as it reached the pikes. The Wolverine, being wholly unprepared for this, was thrown to the ground and he would have been trampled by hooves —awfully messy business, that— if he hadn't rolled out of the way just in time. The claws came out and as they did so, they skewered the legs of two different orcs respectively. He continued to slash at the orcs' legs as he tumbled into their midst completely without coordination and without a plan. Well, there was some sort of a plan in his mind; he was going to create chaos behind the orcs' frontline, ruining their formation so that it became no more than a matter of rounding up all of them and killing them. After all, the only way to destroy a colony of ants was to stick fire inside their ant hill. The Wolverine was that flame. He leapt to his feet, rising from the carnage like an angel of death, snarling as he did so. Blood and sweat and dust clung to his face, making his bared teeth seem startlingly white. The orcs didn't know what to make of him. They had never encountered anyone of his ilk before. They inched backward; none of them wanted to be the first to test this man's claws.

The beast wanted out. It had tasted blood and it wanted more. The shadow only did more to fuel its fury and its lust for violence. Logan loosened its leash. Here, there was no need to show mercy. These creatures didn't deserve it. Instinct took over and he moved as if he was possessed. There was an unnatural grace in his movements. Feral guttural snarls escaped from his throat. The orcs' weapons did nothing against him. Any wound they caused soon closed over. Logan's claws cut through iron as if it was nothing but mud. Some of the orcs mustered enough courage to charge at him altogether at once, which just made it easier for him. He only had to stick out his claws at the right moment, and they would skewer themselves with their own momentum.

All around him, the armies of Mordor were being cut down, although the orcs themselves were now getting over the shock somewhat and rallying. He heard their chief's snarls and threats, forcing them back into regular lines with some order. Well, Logan couldn't have that. One of the corpses was still stuck on the end of his claws. He flung it off, sending it as far as it would go. It went up like a signal flare. Blood dripped from the still oozing wounds and seemed to be suspended in midair for a while before the droplets fell, gaining speed until they hit whatever was below them. The body itself fell more slowly, considering the air resistance, and it fell squarely amongst the orcs, causing more panic among them. The Wolverine grinned as all eyes —well, all orcish eyes— were turned to him. He wanted them to know that he was there, and he wanted them to be very afraid.

Heads and limbs flew off, bodies fell, blood splattered, innards oozed. Logan lost count of how many he had killed and maimed. In the back of his mind, he vaguely registered that if he didn't manage to keep count soon, he would, once again, lose to Legolas and Gimli. But how was a man to keep track of numbers in this chaos? His claws were dripping with gore. The orcs had managed to score a few on him, but those were already closing, and in the heat of battle, with adrenaline coursing through his body, he had hardly noticed them.

The Rohirrim seemed to be making some headway. They had broken through the orcs' frontline completely and were cutting their way through Mordor's ranks towards the besieged Minas Tirith. The city's defenders were doing their own part, firing what few arrows they had left. The orcs had not abandoned their goal of taking the White City yet, of course, even though they were fighting a battle on two fronts. Logan heard the groaning of wood as they continued to work their catapults and big machines. If only he could somehow reach those and disable them. Maybe he could...then again, they were awfully far away, and he couldn't really see them. Besides, the city looked like it would hold now that the orcs' attentions had been distracted. At least, he hoped so.

Logan dodged a troll's mace as it came down. The ground shook as it landed where the Wolverine had been standing just moments ago. Unlike the only other troll Logan had ever seen, this one looked like it had a spark of intelligence behind those small eyes. That other troll had been like an angry toddler, wanting to get rid of everything annoying it. This one's eyes held that glint of malice that Logan recognized in killers everywhere. And unlike that cave troll, this one was analyzing the situation, wondering if it would be better to try and kill this clawed man or if it would be more beneficial to go after the horsemen.

The Wolverine didn't give it enough time to think. He launched himself into the air with a roar. His teeth were bared. His body turned in midair, and then he came down upon the troll with all six claws extended, ready for the kill. He plunged them into the creature's abdomen —Logan couldn't jump _that_ high. The hide was tough, and the creature was protected by thick armour, but that was no match for adamantium. The creature roared in pain. The stab wounds were not all that deep, but it was furious that this puny creature had managed to hurt it at all. Placing his feet against the troll's armour, Logan pulled his claws out and then flipped backwards before landing on the ground on all fours. It would not do to let the creature get hold of him like the troll in Moria had. He wasn't an action figure to be waved around.

"You wanna come get me?" he challenged the creature. It snarled. Threads of glistening saliva hung from its blunt yellow fangs. "So come get me, you son of a bitch!" He dropped and rolled as the creature swiped down in a low horizontal arc. It barely missed Logan's head and the Wolverine felt the rush of wind as the mace went by. He grimaced; it would be rather painful to be skewered on one of the mace's long but blunt spikes. He'd survive it, without doubt, but just because he was used to pain didn't mean that he enjoyed it. What he was enjoying was the sadistic challenge of tormenting the troll and killing it. This wasn't a job for one man, but he was the Wolverine. It had to mean something; it had better, after all the trouble his identity had caused him.

He baited the troll. The orcs stayed out of the way. Apparently, they were smart enough to know something about self-preservation, which was more than Logan could say for some people. The Wolverine darted here and there. His claws were too short to do too much damage, but then, Lady Galadriel seemed to have thought of that months before. Logan retracted his claws and drew his sword out of its sheath. It was time for it to taste blood. He relied on speed, darting in whenever he saw a gap in the troll's defences. A nick there, a cut here, a slash there. He knew he was behaving like a hornet, or perhaps a mosquito. It couldn't be helped. Compared to the troll, he felt like he was about the size of a hornet. Of course, it was an exaggeration, but it was close enough.

The troll finally lost it. It dived at Logan, intent on crushing the man who had been tormenting it for the better half of an hour. That was the Wolverine's chance. As the troll dived downwards with its mouth wide open in a roar, Logan thrust his sword up into its neck with all his might. The vibrations went down his arm as metal grated against bone, but he hit the right place, for his sword went in with very little resistance. His strength, along with the troll's momentum, meant that the sword was driven in up to the hilt. Its roar was cut short as Logan's blade pierced its throat. Frothy blood bubbled out of the wound and from the troll's mouth as Logan jumped out of the way just in time, taking his blade with him. In its death throes, the creature struck out at everything and anything, not caring if he hit men or orcs. Its convulsions slowed down and grew weaker until it stopped moving altogether.

Logan's chest was heaving as he sucked in gulps of air. There was no time to marvel over what he had just done, for the orcs had grown bolder. Supposedly, they thought that Logan might have been weakened by his fight with the troll, and they were hoping that they could overwhelm him with numbers. Logan knew what they were thinking; in fact, it was not all that hard to guess. Orcs had never been the most subtle of creatures. The claws of his left hand came out with a familiar ring. In his right hand, he had his sword, now baptized by troll blood. Long and short; the best combination. So they wanted to mob him, did they?

They could try.

* * *

The din of battle was deafening. She could hardly hear herself scream or roar or even think. In fact, there was no time for thinking. Lives were at stake; not only hers, but her charge's also. Merry might have been eager to ride into battle, but the truth was, he really wasn't ready, at least not for a battle on horseback. The only things she could focus on were her sword and those of her enemies. Parry. Cut. Stab. There was almost a rhythm to the killing.

She pushed all womanly compassion to the back of her mind. At any rate, these creatures did not deserve it. They lived to maim and kill. Death was the only thing they deserved. Their black blood stained her sword, her armour, her horse. Sometimes, she felt as if she did not have enough strength in her sword arm, but she kept going. The men had told her that she could not fight because she was a woman, but Éowyn, daughter of Éomund, was not a woman who conformed to society's expectations of her sex. She would prove to them just what she was capable of and then, perhaps, they would see her as more than just a lady.

Her helmet limited her vision; she could see very little of what was going on beside her. Maybe that was just as well; this was nothing like Helm's Deep, with the wide battlefield and the many thousands which surrounded the Rohirrim. Already, she was feeling a little bit overwhelmed, although she did not let that show. She abhorred such weakness, and at any rate, it would not do her any good if the orcs saw that there was fear in her heart.

She caught sight of Logan cutting up too many orcs to count. He looked like something which ought to haunt the nightmares of men. If it wasn't for his distinctive clothing and his claws, she wouldn't have recognized him. His face, which would be called handsome by many, was twisted into a feral snarl and he was completely covered with the blood of his enemies. A dead troll lay nearby, no doubt a product of the Wolverine's work.

Éowyn realized with a start that for once, he had his sword out and was using it to great effect. Even so, some help would not have gone amiss. Digging her spurs into her mount's flanks, she charged forward. "Hold on, Merry!" she told the hobbit in front of her.

* * *

Logan saw the rider in the periphery of his vision, and then he realized that it was not one, but two riders, with one being much smaller than the other. He grinned; Fellowship members stuck with one another. Somehow, Merry had managed to find him in this mess. His claws cut through helmet and skull. Brain matter spurted onto his hands and it flew everywhere as he moved onto his next victim without even stopping. It was so methodical, this slaughter. He didn't even have to think about it. His body knew exactly what to do.

Éowyn was holding her own rather well, despite her being of such a slender build. Who would have thought that woman would have the strength to cleave through armour and bone? And the way she was riding that horse—that was a true Rohirrim warrior. There was very little doubt about that.

Then came the wargs. Their riders had either been killed or simply fallen off; either way, they had gotten rid of their tack and there was little to hinder them. They seemed to be of a different breed to the ones they had fought while on the way to Helm's Deep. The colourings were different, although Logan had neither the patience nor the time to study the creatures. They were snarling and they had big teeth; that was all he cared about. There were seven of them altogether, led by a creature which resembled a dinosaur more than a canine, if wargs were canine in the first place. The creature's muscles rippled beneath his coarse fur as it bounded towards Éowyn and Merry, and it might have bowled them all over, horse and riders, if Logan hadn't got there first.

He was clearly outsized by the warg, but like his namesake, the Wolverine did not seem to take that into account at all. What he lacked in body mass, he made up for in viciousness. The two of them wrestled, all claws and teeth and brute strength. There was no grace, no style; just animalistic rage and the need to survive. Logan roared as the warg's teeth sank into his shoulder. Just because it wouldn't do any permanent damage didn't meant that it didn't hurt! He plunged his claws into the creature's skull, but he'd obviously miscalculated, because instead of killing it, he only made it angrier.

The warg tossed him into the air as if he was nothing more than a chewed up toy —and he was feeling that way right now. He landed on his back, and his breath was driven for his lungs. Before he could recover, the entire pack was upon him, ripping, biting, tearing; determined to finish him off. Even his healing ability couldn't keep up with it. These hellhounds didn't seem to know the meaning of death. The pain was driving him to madness. He lashed out with no plan, no thought. He tasted blood; both his own and that of the wargs. They were crowded around him so tightly that he could not see the sky.

And then one of them fell away, a spear embedded in its back. The wargs looked up as new prey entered the scene. With an enraged cry, Éowyn thrust an orc pike into the ribcage of one of the smaller animals. Her aim was true. The creature fell onto its back, waving its paws almost comically in the air as it thrashed in pain before going still. The other animals became distracted, and Logan managed to extract himself from beneath them. However, there was no reprieve to be found. Now that Éowyn had rescued him, she was in need of rescuing herself. Ignoring the pain from already healing wounds, Logan went for the pack leader. Such sudden movements probably reopened those wounds more, but he hardly cared. Nobody was going to give their life for him. It wasn't worth it.

Things might have ended very badly indeed if some of the other riders had not come to their aid. Spears sailed through the air with deadly accuracy. The warg beneath Logan collapsed, throwing him to the ground in the process. He felt dizzy, and he was having difficulty breathing. One of his lungs was certainly punctured, and who knew what other worse injuries there could be? He could hardly give himself a diagnosis in this state. The only thing he could be happy about was the complete lack of broken bones. He allowed himself half a minute of rest. Could they blame him? After that spectacular mauling, even the Wolverine needed time to recover.

And then he was up again, just as the last warg was partially beheaded by a rider whom he recognized, but whose name eluded him entirely. "Still alive?" asked the man.

"Yeah," grunted Logan. As if they could have expected anything less. "Let's get to work." After all, there were plenty of other things for him to kill.

* * *

A horn in the distance sounded above the din of battle. Logan paused, and so did the orcs he was fighting. It was not a horn Logan was familiar with, and it seemed the orcs didn't recognize it either. He glanced in the direction of the sound. There were silhouettes on the horizon. Huge silhouettes, and they were growing larger by the second until Logan realized what colossal trouble was upon them. Literally.

He heard the king shouting, the men shouting. Horns blared, calling for the Rohirrim to retain their formation, or, in many cases, take up their positions again. Now they were fighting a battle on two fronts. It occurred to Logan that this battle was rather like a pastry, not that carnage and baked delicacies should ever go together unless one's last name was Todd with Sweeney for a first name. No, this was not a pie, but rather, one of those fancy French pastries with many layers and lots of custard and cream oozing from in between. Then he realized how inappropriate it was to be thinking about dessert when people were getting slaughtered. It seemed so insensitive.

The Wolverine hurried at the sound of the king's rally. He realized he was the only one without a horse, and there were some raised eyebrows when he joined the frontline on foot, but there was no time to tease him about it. He knew that the teasing would come later, if the men were still in the mood for jokes, that was.

Coming towards them were giant elephants, so huge that they made the African specimen in the zoo look like a dwarf. The amount of ivory on those things was phenomenal; four tusks each. Those poachers in Africa would love to get their hands on one of these things. Actually, he wouldn't mind bagging himself one either, and better still, he was actually allowed to kill them. The ground shook with each step they took. As they drew closer, he realized that they had spikes tied to their lower tusks, turning them into even deadlier weapons.

He smelled the fear coming from the riders and guessed that most of them had no idea how to go about killing these things. Arrows would probably do no good at all, considering the thickness of the hide and the sheer size of the animals, unless the arrows hit the creatures' eyes. Alas, not everyone was such a good aim, and these were moving targets. Besides, if anyone got too close, they would inevitably get crushed.

Still, they had no choice but to ride out to meet the elephants —Logan heard someone call them moo-mack-kill— and attempt to bring them down. It was one of the worst matched skirmishes Logan had ever seen. The elephants' spiked tusks swept riders aside as if they were nothing but toy soldiers. Men and horses were crushed beneath their feet as they trampled over the battlefield. These creatures were bred to destroy. Then again, so was Logan.

Sheathing his sword —because it would be quite useless in such a situation— the Wolverine gathered himself and then leapt, with all six claws extended, at one of those beasts. The lengths of metal pierced through the thick hide on a leg so wide that it would take three large men to encircle it with outstretched arms. The claws hardly did any damage to the creature, except make it even angrier, but Logan wasn't looking to kill it just yet. Each elephant, or rather, 'moo-mack', carried a dozen men or so in a basket-like seat on its back, just behind its head. From there, the men steered it on its path of destruction, while others fired arrows down at the Rohirrim. If Logan could somehow hijack one of these creatures, then he would be able to do a lot more damage to the enemy than if he simply killed one. Besides, if Victor could ride wargs and everyone else could ride horses, then he ought to be able to ride something too. Maybe 'moo-mack' riding would turn out better than his attempts at being a cowboy or a knight.

Pushing his fear of heights aside, Logan clawed his way up the creature's leg —no mean feat, for with every step the animal took, it almost shook the Wolverine off. Well, at least he wasn't flying. Flying was worse...then again, maybe not. Arrows were flying down at him from the men above. Once struck him in the forehead and glanced off his adamantium coated skull, leaving a red and silver gash which healed as quickly as it had appeared. By then, the men riding the animal had realized just how much trouble they would be in should Logan ever make it up to the 'moo-mack's back. Men with nose rings and tattooed faces leapt out of the basket and tried to impale him on their long spears, or at least drive him back down. Their aim was poor, for they found it difficult to get steady footing on tons of moving muscle and bone. Logan slashed out at the spears that got too close to him. He was in a precarious position, but that did not mean that people were allowed to just poke him and expect him not to retaliate.

He pulled himself up onto the shoulder where it was relatively still enough for him to pounce on the men who were still trying to stick a spear through him. His claws cut through the shafts of their weapons as if they were nothing. One of the braver ones lunged at him and, using the man's own momentum, Logan threw him down to be trampled by the giant feet of his own steed.

The animal suddenly lurched, and if Logan hadn't managed to stick his claws into its hide in time, he would have fallen down along with six other of its riders who had taken the risk of getting out the basket. Now there were only five other men left to deal with, but these seemed to be the better warriors, judging from their vastly elaborate tattoos of snakes, exquisite jewellery, once again depicting snakes, and gold-plated weapons. No, scrap that. These were probably the elite warriors. Killing machines, in other words. Just as well Logan himself was a killing machine, at least according to the man who had made him what he was. He lunged at them, not caring if he accidentally impaled himself on their spears. As it was, he did, but the adrenaline coursing through him meant that he was able to carry on as if there was nothing was wrong with him. He knew it would hurt later when he had to pull it out of himself, but he had survived worse.

Logan's immunity to death made the warriors hesitate, not that he gave them much time to do so. With one swipe, he'd slashed the throats of two of them. The rider steered the moo-mack in a most erratic manner, trying to dislodge the Wolverine. He almost succeeded too, if Logan had not reached him in time and plunged his claws into the man's back.

The reins fell from the corpse's hand, and Logan quickly snatched them up, only to remember that there were two more men who were determined to get him off the beast. He dodged as a gold-plated axe came down where his head had been just moments before. Logan struck out with a heavy booted foot, catching the man in the belly and sending him flying backwards and downwards. That only left one.

The remaining warrior was cautious. He had seen just what Logan was capable of, and he had no desire to meet the same fate as his companions. He, however, had no long range weapons and he also did not want to get close to the Wolverine. He deliberated. However, Logan lacked the patience to wait for him to make a decision. He had the animal's reins so by his reasoning, he was in charge.

Logan jerked on the reins, making the moo-mack swerve suddenly and hoping that his actions didn't cause any of the Rohirrim to be trampled by mistake. Just as well Middle Earth didn't have a society for the prevention of cruelty to animals, because he realized what he was doing to that poor beast was undoubtedly cruel. The reins were tied to rings in the creature's ears, and he could only imagine how much that hurt to have people jerking on them all the time. However, the manoeuvre worked. The man lost his balance and plunged to his death in the mess of spears and hooves below. Now it was just Logan and the oversized elephant.

With a groan, he pulled the spear out of his body. His hands were slick with blood; both his own and that of his enemies. The weapon came out with a sickly squelch and pain shot through him. He gritted his teeth and waited for his body's natural healing ability to kick in. After a while, the pain lessened until it became a dull, bearable throb, and then absolutely nothing. All that remained of the mortal wound was a hole the size of a ping-pong ball in his singlet.

The elephant beneath him lumbered on, quite oblivious to the fact that it had just had a change of riders. "All right," muttered Logan. He tugged on the reins to wheel the elephant around. The creature did what it was told with very little resistance, probably because it hurt to do so, but Logan could not help but feel a sense of success. He was riding something alive without clinging on for dear life! That was quite some achievement; in fact, one of the greatest he'd made ever since arriving in Middle Earth.

So he was really quite annoyed when the men on another elephant decided that no one else other than them should ride one of those beasts and sent a volley of spears and crossbow bolts flying in his direction. An arrow struck Logan in the abdomen, making him double over in pain. Those people were going to pay when he got their hands on them! A spear hit the elephant in the face, making it rear up in anger and fear. The poor thing was really quite confused. It might have been bred for destruction but, being a herbivore, killing wasn't really in its nature. Logan clung on with his claws, praying that he would not fall down. It wouldn't kill him, but it would certainly be embarrassing, especially since he'd felt so successful about hijacking the elephant.

He was almost shaken off when the front quarters of the animal came down. Fortunately for him, it was not badly injured, and therefore it was not going to fall and throw him off. The bad news was that it was furious and absolutely beyond control. It charged, ploughing straight into another line of elephants, not caring at all about the arrows and spears flying in its direction. Even the mildest creature had limits on its patience, and this wasn't exactly a mild animal at all.

A head-on collision was inevitable.

* * *

**A/N: **Hmm, still not finished with the battle, I'm afraid, and Logan hasn't killed nearly enough things, but bear with me. I like the details. ;)


	46. Carnage and Cost

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything that you recognize. It all belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien, New Line Cinema, Marvel and 20****th**** Century Fox. **

**Partypony: **Logan needed to be able to ride _something_. ;) I'm glad you liked the chapter. I like fluff too, and humour is one of my favourite things. Angst is good, but sometimes it becomes too much and needs some fluffy humour to balance it out.

**Vballmania23: **Thank you. I'm glad you liked it.

**Amba gurl: **I'd like to be able to update more than once a week too. Unfortunately, I have to be realistic; it takes a week for me to get motivated, get inspired, type everything up, correct things etc. ;) I'm glad you're enjoying the story. Thanks for the rec, by the way. I read notmanos' take on pre-X-Men/post-amnesia Logan, and it was amazing! (To everyone else: That story, called 'Freaks', is highly recommended.)

_Warning: Bad language._

**Chapter 46: Carnage and Cost **

It felt as if he was riding a moving mountain, and a very noisy one at that, not that moving mountains could be quiet. However, this one was deafening. The elephant bellowed in anger as more spears and arrows flew in its direction. It increased its speed as it charged towards another elephant that it felt was the cause of all its troubles. At the last moment, the creature lowered its head and rammed the other animal's legs with its mighty tusks, causing the other elephant to rear back, dislodging its riders. It trumpeted furiously. How dare that other creature attack it? Didn't he know who was in charge here?

_Shit_. That was the only word Logan could think of to describe his current situation as he was caught in the middle of a wrestling match between two of the largest creatures he had ever encountered. This was a clash of titans and one of those rare moments when the Wolverine felt very small. He clung on grimly, for to fall was to be trampled, and he didn't even like heights in the first place. Was there some way to calm the elephants down? Fighting dogs could be dealt with by firing water at them, but there was not a hose big enough for these things. In fact, there wasn't even a hose available.

Yes. 'Shit' was definitely the right word.

The two animals forgot about the fact that they had riders on their back. They forgot about the battle going on around them. They forgot about all the men and orcs and trolls —and they were all wisely keeping away from _this_ battle— as they fought for supremacy. Tusks locked. Their trunks were wrapped around each others' heads as they wrestled. The ground shook. Dust rose, creating a veil that clouded what was going on, making it all the more confusing. Logan closed his eyes for the sudden movements were making him feel dizzy and at any rate, it wasn't as if he could see anything.

He heard the sound of a Rohirric horn above the bellows and trumpeting. At least the others were still managing to fight. He could not believe that he was here, clinging onto a mad elephant whilst the others were struggling to survive. He had to make a choice; he could either jump down, or he could somehow take control of the situation. After all, he was the one who was supposed to be at the top of the food chain here! He had the claws, he had opposable thumbs and he had the more advanced brain. There was no reason why the elephants could lord it over him. Size mattered, but not that much.

Logan reached out for the discarded reins, which were hanging over the creature's neck. They had become entangled in its opponent's trunk. The Wolverine slashed out at the offending trunk, causing the other elephant to let out a high-pitched cry. Aha! So that was another sensitive spot. The trunk loosened just enough for Logan to free the reins. He gave them a hard yank, causing his own elephant —by rights, it was his; he'd hijacked it— to jerk away. Tusks cracked and broke off with the sudden movement. With all the trumpeting going on, Logan began to wonder if his ears were bleeding yet. It was like listening to a bad brass band. He didn't like brass all that much to begin with.

However, he succeeded in what he had set out to do, which was to free his elephant so that he could go wreak havoc elsewhere. "Right," he muttered. He was clutching the reins so tightly that his knuckles were white. Could anyone blame him? This was worse than clinging to the outside of a crashing helicopter! At least with a helicopter, it would fall in a predictable pathway, thus giving him enough time to prepare for a suicidal jump. Living things were unpredictable.

* * *

Arrows were thick in the air. Riders weaved in and out from underneath the mûmakil, thrusting spears into their bellies and hoping to mortally wound the beasts. It seemed so futile, riding against these creatures with legs the size of tree trunks and tusks so large that they could easily build a great hall out of them. Broken bodies were littered on the ground. Horses whinnied pitifully, struggling to get up even though their legs were bent at odd angles, sometimes with bones sticking out from the skin. Men lay twisted, like the scattered toys of a spoilt child.

Éomer hefted his spear and narrowed his eyes as he took aim, all the while praying for the spirits of his ancestors to guide his hand so that his spear might fly true. The weakest spot of any animal was the eye, and he meant to strike it. Unfortunately, despite their size, mûmakil had relatively small eyes, and from such a distance, it was nigh impossible to hit his target. Still, he had to try. If they could bring down one animal, just one, then maybe the men would see that there was hope left.

The spear cut through the air in a slow arc. Its path was true, for it struck the beast's eye as Éomer had intended, partially blinding the animal. It bellowed in agony and swerved in the other direction so suddenly that half a dozen men were dislodged from its back. Their screams were drowned out by the roar of battle as they fell, only to be pierced by Rohirrim swords or to be trampled beneath the giant feet of their own steeds.

The wounded mûmak did not discriminate between friend and enemy as it ran through the thickets of men. The pain from the wound, together with the inability to see properly, only added to its agitation. For a moment, Éomer pitied the beast, for it was not so different from his own warhorse, Firefoot, and everyone knew how much he loved that horse. There was no malicious intent in the mûmak's heart. It was trained to kill, and like any good horse or hound, it had simply been trying to please its masters. These dumb animals had not the ability to think for themselves as men could. It was not right that they should pay for the folly and greed of their masters.

Then all pity for the wounded mûmak was pushed aside as it charged straight at Éomer. Innocent or not, it was dangerous. Éomer urged his stallion into a gallop and expertly guided him so that the two of them passed safely underneath the mûmak. As he reached the hindquarters of the animal, the warrior struck out with his sword, using all the strength which he possessed. If his calculations were correct —and he sincerely hoped they were— then he would have effectively hamstrung the beast, thus rendering it useless. The trumpeting roar told him that he had hit something, and moments later, he would have been crushed by spirits knew how many tons of mûmak if his horse hadn't been quick enough.

Clouds of dust rose as the beast collapsed. Its legs thrashed as it struggled to get up. Its riders abandoned it as quickly as rats abandoned a sinking ship, or so Éomer had heard. Personally, he had never been on a ship and he did not have any desire to ever find himself in such a situation. Men belonged on land and on horses. "Stay away!" he called to his men. Even though it had fallen, there was still some fight left in the animal. Its trunk was deadly, for it wielded it like a club and with much accuracy. One young warrior got too close and he was sent flying by a powerful blow. In a way, it was regrettable that such a magnificent and once-proud creature had to be reduced to this, but this was war, and death did not discriminate between the innocent and the guilty.

He was pulled out of his extremely brief reverie as a huge shadow passed over him. At first, he tensed, thinking that death had come for him, but then he realized that the shadow belonged to a mûmak that was charging in the wrong direction and with apparently no one to control it. And...was that Logan clinging on for dear life?

It seemed that he was not the only one who had noticed; even some of the orcs paused to look —a fatal mistake for them, for the Rohirrim were not so easily distracted from the task at hand and they cut them down whilst their attention was elsewhere. This was only one beast and one man, but together, they made all the difference in the world. Suddenly, Éomer saw everything very clearly. While it would take too long and too much effort to take down the mûmakil one by one, it would not be so difficult to rile them up so that they ruined their own formation themselves. They were only animals after all, and most animals responded in the same way to pain and confusion. As a boy, he had seen horses panic for seemingly no reason other than the fact that one of them got spooked by a bird's sudden take-off, causing the rest of the herd to think that there was a predator nearby and thus starting stampedes. It would be risky business to try it with such huge animals, but if the plan succeeded, then the risk would be worth it. Charging mûmakil crushed everything in their path and by logical estimation, they were more likely to trample orcs than Rohirrim, considering the fact that mounted soldiers would always be faster and more agile, and the number of orcs far exceeded that of the Rohirrim.

He motioned to his men. "Fire at their heads!" he shouted. With so many arrows, they were bound to hit something sensitive. Firefoot, sensing his rider's excitement, was on the verge of prancing; only his impeccable training kept him from doing so. The horse was born to ride into battle, for unlike most usual horses; _they_ would baulk at so much blood and noise and confusion. Firefoot worked best under such conditions. Éomer let him have his head, trusting that his steed knew what to do and only giving guidance with his knees. Firefoot surged forward, weaving in and out from between the mûmakil's legs. Some of them tried to crush the horse and rider, while others reared and swerved to avoid them, alarmed by all the sudden movement. Their riders struggled to control them as their instincts took over.

One mûmak crashed into another, causing both to topple over. The ground shook as they fell, and men and orcs alike tried their best to get out of the way of the collision, although not all were successful and they were buried beneath mountains of flesh. The two broken animals struggled to get up, not caring if they stepped on one another. One of the animals had two great wounds in its side, caused by the tusks of the other. Its blood poured onto the ground to stain it an even deeper red.

He noticed a young warrior out of the corner of his eye, expertly guiding his horse whilst wielding not one, but two swords. How come he hadn't noticed him before? The boy's slender build belied his strength and what he lacked in size, he made up for in skill. He rode without fear of death and with no thought of his own safety, hacking at the mûmakil's hind legs and felling them like trees. Always, he was gone before the beast fell to its knees and already closing in on yet another unfortunate victim. "Who is he?" he asked of his men.

"I heard that his name is Dernhelm, milord!" called one of them above the din.

"Dernhelm?" said Éomer softly to himself. He would have to remember that name. That boy needed a promotion.

* * *

He knew that the animal was tiring. He could tell by its lacklustre bellows. Fighting with so many of its own kind had exhausted it and it was showing signs of giving up. Spears and arrows had pierced it in many places and there were deep gores from the other elephants' tusks. The creature suddenly lurched and fell onto its knees, throwing Logan to the ground. The rough landing knocked the breath from his lungs. He forced himself onto his feet; his chest was heaving as he sucked in gulps of air. The elephant was done for, and they both knew it. The creature wasn't even trying to get up. Instead, it lay on its side, its flanks rising and falling rapidly.

"Sorry, bub," muttered Logan. He had other things to deal with other than dying elephants. Orcs and men were swarming around him already, thinking that he might be easier prey now that he was on his own and without a mount. He popped his claws and glared menacingly at the men and orcs surrounding him, baring his teeth. They hesitated, murmuring amongst themselves, some in their own guttural language and others in Common Tongue. That was when Logan remembered. They probably knew about Victor, the only other clawed man he knew who'd graced Middle Earth with his presence. And knowing Victor, he'd probably made a lasting impression.

Logan didn't wait for them to make a decision about him. He'd never had any patience. Throats were slit, limbs were severed, bellies were slashed open. Hot blood covered Logan. The remnants of his clothes were soaked in dark sticky liquid. It ran down his skin in rivulets, leaving trails which quickly dried and were covered once more with fresh blood. He wasn't in control of his body; the beast was. Logan felt as if he was seeing everything from a distance, and he felt emotionally distanced too, even though men and orcs alike fell under his claws. He was numb, which was probably a good thing because there was no room for sentimentality during battle. His life and the lives of his comrades depended upon quick reflexes and the innate ability to take life. Today, he was the Grim Reaper.

Other riders had reached him by then, and they waded into the swarm. Their swords fell methodically, cleaving skulls as if they were nothing but melons. He spotted Théoden among them. First it was Éowyn, and now her uncle. He was really quite indebted to the royal house of Rohan. Without them, life would have been much more difficult. One of Théoden's men, Gamling, reached him first. The man was leading a rider-less horse. Logan groaned inwardly, knowing what he had to do. He just wasn't all that fond of horses. Hell, he preferred mad elephants to them.

"I know you do not like riding, Master Wolverine!" shouted the man above the din. Had he really been that easy to read? "But believe me, you need a mount and this was easier than getting you another mûmak to ride!" Logan would have thought of a smart reply, but one of those Easter people, seeing that he was a bit distracted, had lunged at him, determined to take off his head. Logan ducked the wide swipe and then grabbed the man's legs and threw him over his head before twisting backwards and plunging his claws into the man's body, pinning him to the ground. Overkill, but that was the beast's way.

The horse shied as he vaulted onto its back. It knew that he was a predator and herbivores, in general, did not like predators. Somewhere not too far away, the king was rallying his troops. Logan couldn't exactly hear what he was shouting because of all the noise around him, but that hardly mattered, because everything soon went to pot.

A high-pitched scream rent the air. No, make that many high-pitched screams. Men tried to cover their ears. Their cries of pain were drowned out, for no one could hear anything except for the Nazgûl. For Logan, this was pure agony, comparable even to the pain of being cut open and having metal integrated into his skeleton. This was one of those times when he cursed his sensitive hearing. His ears felt as if they were about to burst, no matter how hard he tried to block them. Pain shot through his head. He couldn't think, he hardly knew where he was. For a moment, he even thought he was back at that lab, immersed in cold water and with needles drilling into his flesh to reach his bones. He toppled off his horse, still clutching his head. He couldn't even scream.

Horses panicked and fled in every direction as the dark shadow came upon them. There was chaos everywhere, not that Logan cared at the moment. He just wanted that damn noise to stop! And then, it did. Logan gasped for breath and then pushed himself up onto shaking legs. His ears were still ringing, but otherwise, he would be fine in a few moments. It took a while to register what had just happen. Before him was the ugliest thing he had ever seen. If he didn't know better, he would have said it was a dinosaur, although years spent with kids —who always seemed to go through a phase where they became obsessed with extinct prehistoric creatures— had taught him that dinosaurs did not have wings. Those were pterosaurs. Not that such trivial details mattered at the moment. The reptilian creature was covered in black scales, and sitting astride it was one of those black riders, only this one wore an iron crown on his formless head. He followed the dragon's line of sight. It was looming over a fallen horse with a rider trapped beneath it. The king!

Logan made to rush forwards, to do something, when another warrior stepped between the Nazgûl and its prey. The Wolverine felt dread surge up inside him, something which did not happen very often. Éowyn! Oh, this was his fault. Maybe he really should have tried to discourage her from coming, although deep down, he knew that she would have come anyway, whether he had supported her or not. All he could really do, as her friend, was try his best to watch out for her, which was exactly what he was going to do now.

He charged towards the black rider and his steed, letting out a challenging roar as he did so. For a moment, both beast and rider turned, briefly distracted by this madman. Logan leapt, aiming for the rider's chest. He wasn't sure what claws would do against undead things with no form, —last time, he hadn't been able to do anything— but he had to try. He never got to find out. Something slammed into his head and sent him flying.

There was pain and a flash of white light. Then, darkness reigned.

* * *

Éowyn would have screamed, but no sound came out. She could only watch in horror as the Nazgûl struck out at Logan with his mace, batting him away as if he was no more than a child's toy. He flew through the air and landed several feet away. His claws had retracted and he lay so still. Blood seeped from the tears on his ruined face and from his neck. Light glinted dully on the metal which coated his bones. She had no time to digest this information. The Nazgûl had turned his attention back to her. She swallowed. No, she could not show weakness. She was all that stood between this servant of the Dark Lord and her uncle. And what was there to be afraid of? She'd told Logan that she did not fear death. If she was to die this way, then at least her death would have some meaning.

"You will not touch him!" she declared. She took a defensive stance, gripping her sword tightly and holding her borrowed shield in front of her. How much use it would be, she did not know, but having one had to be better than nothing.

"You are a fool to stand between the Witch King of Angmar and his prey," said the figure with no face. She stared into the dark shadow where his face ought to have been. His voice was unnatural; grating and guttural. As he spoke, a chill ran up her spine and settled into her bones. Still, she stood her ground. Rohan's spirit would not break. _Her_ spirit would not break.

The fell beast lunged, slavering jaws wide open, revealing wicked white teeth that curved backwards like hooks. Once it got its teeth into its victim, the poor unfortunate would never be able to escape. Éowyn wasn't going to make that mistake. She dodged to one side and then brought her sword down on the beast's neck. It took all her strength to cut through those hard armoured scales and that thick hide. Blood spurted out and splashed onto her. She must have cut something important. Still, the creature thrashed, trying to grab her. She cut down again and again until she felt the grating vibrations which indicated she had reached bone. The beast convulsed one more time as its head flew off and then toppled onto its side. There, the headless body lay, twitching, but she was more than certain that it was dead, for the blood was no longer pumping out of the severed neck as rapidly. But that was only the beginning.

From within the membranous folds of the fell beast's wings, a cloaked black figure rose, taller than any other Éowyn had seen. The Dark Lord's most trusted servant, greatest of the Nine, was far from defeated. In his gauntleted hand was a mace —the same one he'd hit Logan with. The head of the mace was larger than any man's head. Suddenly, her mouth felt dry. There would be no second chances here. If he struck her with that mace, then it would be the end of her. Who would stand between the Witch King and her uncle then?

She ducked as Witch King swung the mace in a wide arc. Wind brushed her face as she heard it fly over her head. It landed on the ground a mere foot away from where she had been standing, its spikes piercing the earth. Logan's blood was still on them. She had no time to think about it as the Witch King struck out at her again. This time, she wasn't quick enough. The mace's head struck her shield. There was a crack as the shield shattered. Pain shot up her arm and she let out a cry before falling onto one knee, holding her wounded limb close to her body. The impact had broken the bone. How badly, she did not know, but agony lanced through the limb whenever she moved. Sucking in great lungfuls of air as she struggled to control herself, she tried to climb back onto her feet, completely aware that the Witch King was advancing upon her. This was it. She was going to die, and her uncle with her. The forces of Mordor had proven too great for the two of them.

She felt the cold gauntleted hand of the Witch King on her throat. The metal dug into her skin as his grip tightened. Every other sound seemed to fade away as she looked into the face of her killer, or rather, the empty place where the face ought to have been. The only thing she could hear was her own rapid beating heart and the voice of her enemy. It surrounded her, and she felt as if she was being buried in a cold crypt already. Darkness crept in from the edges of her vision. "Have you not heard, fool?" hissed the Witch King as he cut off her air flow. "No man can kill me."

No man? Then what? An elf? A wolverine? Wait...she wasn't...

Suddenly, the manacle-like grip around her neck loosened. The Witch King fell to his knees. His scream of pain almost deafened her and made her forget what she was doing here, but the pain in her arm reminded her of her purpose. She was a daughter of kings! In her ran the blood of generations of noble men and women. No servant of Mordor, Witch King or otherwise, was going to stop her if she put her mind to it. Her enemy was kneeling before her now, still dangerous, but at least he wasn't looming over her. Behind him, she glimpsed Merry. Now more than ever, she was very glad that she had placed her faith in him and brought him with her, for without him, she would be dead already. They had truly underestimated the hobbit's strength and determination, just as everyone had underestimated her.

She pulled off her helmet, letting her long tangled flaxen hair tumble over her shoulders and down her back. There was no need to hide anymore. Her enemy would know exactly who killed him. "I am no man," she said with a triumphant edge in her voice, and then she plunged her sword into his head.

* * *

He didn't know where he was, save for the fact that there was a fight. His head felt as if there was a battle going inside, although the throbbing was slowly subsiding. His entire body seemed to be aching. Logan groaned and picked himself up, not entirely steady on his feet. For a moment, the world reeled around him. Ah, he remembered now. As everything settled and his vision focused, what he saw made blood and adrenaline rush into his head. "Éowyn!" he shouted, forgetting all about propriety and ceremony. She was standing before the black rider, who, for some inexplicable reason, was on his knees. Her hair was loose and blowing in the wind. Logan made to move, but he was not quick enough.

Éowyn thrust her blade into the dark space where the thing's face ought to have been. For a brief moment, nothing happened, and then she let go of her sword abruptly and fell against the body of her uncle's horse as if all strength had been drained from her. The sword flew out of the black rider's head, repelled by some unseen force. A blast of unnatural energy exploded, almost knocking Logan off his feet and then before his very eyes, the Nazgûl deflated. His helmet crumpled and his hands flew to his non-existent face as if he was in pain. Actually, the whole process of deflating looked rather painful. He convulsed, letting out a dying scream so high pitched that it could have shattered glass. Logan certainly felt as if he was being shaken into pieces. He felt inexplicably cold; then again, that was what the power of these black riders did, wasn't it? The last time he'd stabbed one of them, his arm had remained freezing for a day before the feeling passed, and that was only because he had supernatural healing powers.

Green light emitted from the crumpling Nazgûl, as if all the negative energy which had formed its existence was leaking out of that hole which Éowyn had caused when she'd stabbed the damn thing. And then, it was nothing more, save for a pile of mangled metal and a limp black cloak.

Logan rushed to Éowyn's side. A few orcs were already converging on her, knowing that she was in no shape to fight back. Popping his claws, he let out a roar as he dove at them. It was good to be back in the action. He spat as some of the blood got into his mouth and then retracted his claws. They came out with a squelch and the corpses fell to the ground to join many others of their own kind. When he glanced back at the Shieldmaiden, he found that she had somehow summoned the strength to drag herself over to the dying king's side.

The Wolverine felt awkward, as if he was intruding on something very private, which he probably was. So he tuned out their conversation and concentrated on keeping the orcs and Easter people at bay. He knew his face was still in the process of healing and the sight of flesh knitting together like that unnerved most people. Only a few of the braver ones tried to attack him, and they were all cut down with a few quick slashes. The Wolverine was nothing if not an efficient killer. It ran in the family, it seemed.

His protective nature surfaced when he heard Éowyn weeping. Yes, he didn't know her too well, but she was a good woman —more of a girl, really— who was far too young to have suffered so much. He'd be damned if he let anything else hurt her. She deserved to say goodbye to her uncle at least. Even though he hadn't seen the king, judging from the way the horse lay on top of him, Logan surmised that there was no way of saving him. Those animals were heavy. The only thing he could do for Théoden was to make sure that nothing disturbed him during his last moments.

Suddenly, he realized that he'd forgotten about Merry, having been so occupied with protecting Éowyn. The hobbit had been with her, hadn't he? Oh God, he had to be nearby. He had to be alive! The Wolverine looked around frantically for the hobbit, shouting his name whilst running orcs through. It was hard to hear anything over the din of battle, but finally his shouting paid off when he heard a weak reply. Shoving the dead orc off his claws, Logan hurried in the direction of the sound and found him struggling to get away from an orc who was about to skewer him. Logan got there first and the orc found himself skewered instead.

"Are you hurt?" he asked the hobbit, looking him over.

"My arm," said Merry breathlessly. His face was pale beneath the grime and covered in a film of sweat. "I can't feel it. It's gone cold!"

"Evil Nazgûl powers," muttered Logan as he helped the hobbit to stand. "Stay close to me! We're gonna get Éowyn. You _can_ walk, can't you?"

"I think it's called Black Breath," said the hobbit with a weak smile, "and I'm not sure if I can keep up, to be honest."

"Well, can you hold on?" asked Logan. Before Merry could answer, he'd hoisted the hobbit onto his back.

* * *

**A/N: **Oh my, this battle is taking up a long time and a lot of words. I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Aragorn and his company will turn up soon, I promise!


	47. I Ain't Fragile

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything that you recognize. It all belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien, New Line Cinema, Marvel and 20****th**** Century Fox. **

**Amba gurl: **I'm glad you're still enjoying the story. No, I haven't read notmanos' other stories, but I will get around to doing that sometime. Yes...hmm, I can't tell you exactly when Boromir gets to meet up with Logan again, but it should be soon.

**Party Pony: **It is kind of sad that it's near the end, but I've enjoyed the entire thing while it lasted, and I'm going to enjoy it right until it's truly finished. And the thing with stories is that they are never truly finished. ;) We may yet see more of the charming Logan in the future after this story is done.

**Miss:** Saving, killing, protecting—all these things intertwine when it comes to the Wolverine. :P

**i: **There seems to be a lot of variations on Logan's healing powers. For example, he heals way better in X-Men Origins than in the X-Men trilogy. I'm not actually sure which one to follow, so I just go with my gut. But your suggestion is interesting. I might actually explore the premise of Logan needing to take time out to recuperate pretty soon. There is certainly no shortage of opportunities. Thanks for the idea.

_Thank you to all my reviewers. Your comments are much appreciated. _

**Chapter 47: I Ain't Fragile**

_Warning: Bad language_

He ducked, careful not to put Merry in harm's way. He'd only ever done this a few times before, carrying someone on his back whilst fighting, and he was always afraid that something might go wrong. For instance, he couldn't let himself be run through anymore, in case the hobbit on his back got skewered along with him. Merry was very tense, as he had ever right to be. Logan knew he wasn't the smoothest ride around, and this could only be a temporary arrangement until they found something better. Hey...if he could hijack a giant elephant, why couldn't he grab a rider-less horse? Then he could lead the horse behind him and still fight as he normally did. Leading a horse had to be easier than riding one, right?

Oh well, first things first; they had to get to Éowyn before they could do anything else. "Still hangin' in there?" he shouted to the hobbit.

"Just!" came Merry's reply. He was trying to sound stronger than he was, but Logan knew better. The Brandybuck would have to try harder than that to fool him. He would have commented on it, but an orc distracted him. Logan trapped its scimitar with one set of claws and then beheaded it with the other. Blood spurted from the neck as the body fell. The head bounced one and then was lost amongst the pile of corpses at the Wolverine's feet. He could see Éowyn, struggling to reach her fallen sword even though her left arm was broken and from experience, Logan knew that her right arm wouldn't be much use either.

One of the orcs had spotted her and was limping her way. The Wolverine realized with a start that instead of the usual dark grey, it was pink. Pink. Its flesh looked as if it was just healing from third degree burns. Some of it seemed to have melted, making it even more disfigured than the others of its species. Its progress was painful, but Éowyn was making even less headway. If he didn't hurry, there was no knowing what could happen.

"It's gonna be bumpy!" he warned Merry as he gathered himself. He pounced.

* * *

The wind rushed by Merry's ears as they soared through the air. He'd never known anything as strong as Logan, and he doubted he ever would. Even Boromir wasn't this strong. He gritted his teeth and tightened his grip as Logan came down upon that orc. The jarring landing almost made him fall off, but he knew what was as stake and he was clinging on with all the strength he had left. That foul creature from Mordor did not stand a chance against the Wolverine's claws, not that it didn't try. Merry saw it lunge at Logan with its club, and it would have struck the Wolverine's head if the man had not nimbly dodged.

The hobbit swallowed rapidly as he saw his friend's claws enter the orc's belly and slashing it open so that all the intestines slithered out, steaming in the cool air of the morning. He would never view sausages in the same way again. In fact, if his stomach hadn't been empty in the first place, he would have emptied it by now. Actually, it was probably a good thing that he hadn't had anything in his belly. Logan had enough to deal with.

* * *

"You 'kay?" Logan asked Éowyn as he helped her to stand. She was shaking badly, and her face looked as if it was made of wax, for it was so pale, almost translucent, beneath a layer of grime. She nodded, not having enough strength to speak. Tears had made pale tracks on the dust on her face. If she hadn't been leaning against him, she would have fallen back down already. Still, she tried not to show her weakness. "Come on," he said gruffly. "Let's get you out of here."

"But how?" she managed to whisper. She swept her gaze over the thousands of enemies surrounding them. There was no way out. They would either have to fight or perish, and both she and Merry were in no shape for the former.

"I'm the Wolverine," said Logan. "I have my ways." He quickly glanced around to see if there were any strategic advantages to be had. Nearby, there was a fallen elephant lying on its side. Its legs and body formed just the perfect shape for some sort of protection from the swarm. Now, if only they could get there...

An arrow flew into his shoulder, making him almost drop Éowyn in surprise. Just as well it had been his shoulder and not her head. There was no stopping that roar of pain and rage, nor was there any need. In fact, that feral sound had made their enemies hesitate as they wondered about what they had unleashed exactly. The beast was straining against its leash, snarling and snapping. It wanted blood, and it wanted it _now_. Logan refused to let it take over for he knew that the beast was only good at destruction. Right now, he had a more important task than ripping orcs into pieces. Lives depended on him, and these were lives that he genuinely cared about.

"Logan?" whispered Merry. He could hear the terror in the hobbit's voice. Obviously, he was thinking of another time when someone got shot while trying to protect him. Logan didn't even bother to answer. All that really mattered was getting to that dead elephant. Gore flew everywhere as the Wolverine cut a path through the melee. His claws were nothing but dull silver blurs. At least the beast was getting its blood, even if it wasn't allowed to rampage. That satisfied it somewhat. By the time they reached the giant corpse, all three of them were slick with the blood of their enemies.

Merry and Éowyn more or less collapsed to the ground. Logan let them rest. Here, it was relatively safe, for the body and the legs of the elephant created a sort of barricade which their enemies would have to climb over to get to them, and who would waste so much time with one wounded warrior and a hobbit? Logan was guarding the only 'entrance' to their little fortress of flesh and no one was getting past those claws.

The arrow had already fallen from his shoulder, pushed out by the healing flesh. He stood his ground with his back to his friends. No one wanted to go near the madman with extended claws and super healing powers. Here, he could hold them back. Still, they couldn't stay forever. They all knew that. There was a war to be fought and Logan was a warrior, not a bodyguard, not that he would ever leave his friends in such a vulnerable state.

It was just his luck that Éomer and his éored rode past. The horselord would not have noticed them if Logan hadn't called out to him. Yes, they were all in trouble because of the three of them, two of them were not supposed to even be here, yet Logan had encouraged them. The Wolverine wondered who Éomer was going to blame, then he decided that he didn't care because if Éowyn hadn't come along, they would still be dealing with that big black rider, and who knew what could have happened? Éomer would just have to accept the fact that his little sister was an excellent soldier who should not have been left behind.

At first, the horselord did not seem to realize that his sister was there, but after some gesturing by Logan and a lot of shouting, understanding dawned on him, and the Wolverine swore that he saw the blood drain from the warrior's face. He'd never seen anyone change colour so quickly before. Yes, trouble was coming, and it was not in the form of a dark lord but a very wrathful and overprotective brother. Ah, well. Logan was sure that he could deal with it, and wouldn't Éomer be sensible enough not to make a fuss until after the battle?

"For the love of the ancestors!" shouted Éomer. "What...what...?!"

"Long story," Logan shouted back, "and we ain't got no time!" He emphasized that statement by lashing out, catching an orc in the head and cutting it into a few slices, helmet and all. The cuts were so clean that one could have used the skull for a biology lesson. By then, Éomer and his men had reached the dead elephant. "You got a spare horse?" the Wolverine demanded.

"Take mine!" said one of the younger riders, making to dismount. Chivalry was very much alive in Middle Earth.

"No!" said Éomer. "My sister shall ride with me! Éothain, you take Esquire Meriadoc!"

"Can you manage?" asked Logan as he lifted Éowyn into the saddle in front of her brother. It looked rather risky, having two riders on a horse. Wouldn't it weigh down the animal and make all of them easier targets?

"Of course I can manage," said the warrior. His helmet hid most of his face, but Logan knew anger when he heard it. He couldn't exactly blame him. His younger sister had almost died, after all, and most anger seemed to stem from some form of love, no matter how twisted. "You will be fine without a steed?"

"More than fine," Logan assured him. "If I need one, I'll hijack one." It occurred to him that he might have given a wittier answer, but he had no time for smart comebacks, nor was he in the mood. Now that Éowyn and Merry were in the care of Éomer and his men, Logan could breathe a sigh of relief. He was never one to shirk responsibility, but so much mental pressure usually made the beast mad, and unfortunately, when the lives of others depended on him directly, it was usually not a good idea to unleash his wilder self. The beast wasn't choosy about who it killed as long as it killed something.

* * *

Fires burned, sending black columns into the already darkened sky. The battlefield was covered in the haze of dust and smoke. Men and orcs looked like ants from such a distance. The ground was already strewn with the bodies of the dead. A shadow lingered over the battlefield, showing the reach of the dark lord's arm. However, stubborn sunrays were beginning to pierce through the broil of black fumes in the sky, as if they knew that hope was at hand, for the king had returned to claim what was his.

A layer of mist covered the river's surface, although it was beginning to dissipate in the weak sunlight. The light ships of the Corsairs cut through the water easily. No one had suspected anything yet. Good. With their numbers, they were going to need the element of surprise. He felt a hand on his shoulder and he turned to see Legolas there. "You are nervous," said the elf. It was not a question. Was it really that obvious?

"No king has walked on these lands _as_ king for many centuries," he said. Nervousness needed justification. "And I do not feel quite ready. Indeed, I do not know if I will ever be ready to take up this mantle."

"You are as ready as you will ever be, Estel," said Legolas, lapsing into the tongue of the elves. "Your friends have faith in you. Your family has faith in you." He paused. "Arwen has faith in you."

"Then I pray to the Valar that your faith is not misplaced," said the man.

"You shape your own fate, my friend, not the Valar," said Legolas. "While it is seldom that I look to Logan for inspiration, there was one thing he said to me that has lingered in my mind. He said that no one was going to dictate his future for him, and I believe that applies to all of us." He gave a small reassuring smile. "We have come this far, my young friend, even passing through doors that no living man has ever passed before. Surely that has to mean something."

"I suppose," said Aragorn, although the doubt in his heart still lingered. He was only one man, after all. His lineage aside, what really set him apart from so many others?

"At any rate," Legolas continued, "there is no room for doubt." It was as if the elf could read his thoughts. "We cannot turn back now, and therefore, you must learn to have faith in yourself. You will be king, and you will be a great king. I know it."

"So it comes down to the intuition of the elves again, does it?" said the ranger.

"Not so much mine as that of Lord Elrond and Lady Galadriel," said Legolas. "And I have learned long ago not to doubt them."

The ships came to the dock. Apart from a few char marks, it was mostly intact, for the orcs had not been foolish enough to destroy everything in their path. After all, their allies were supposed to have come by ship, and they would have needed that dock. It was just as well; Aragorn had no intention of swimming into battle. A company of goblins were waiting for them there, and they were a spirited lot too, although that could be because they were not the ones getting cut down.

The plan was vague, but it was a plan nonetheless. Only a few men were rowing. The rest had their bows ready, waiting for Aragorn's signal. The idea was that they would stun the orcs first, making their landing smoother. After all, they had had very little idea of what the situation would be like.

"You're late!" snarled the captain of the goblins. Aragorn couldn't exactly disagree with that. They were rather late, by the looks of things, although they weren't too late. "The Master will not be pleased!" An understatement, surely; Sauron would be less than displeased to learn of what had happened to the Corsairs. He would be even less pleased very soon when the forces of Mordor would be beaten back by an alliance of Men. "What are you waiting for, you lazy sea rats?"

"Rats, are we?" he heard someone mutter. It sounded a lot like an offended dwarf. Well, it was best not to delay the attack for too long, lest they let the opportune moment pass them by. As Legolas had said, he was as ready as he would ever be.

"Now!" he shouted. Arrows whistled through the air. The orcs, taken completely by surprise, were unable to respond in time. Many of them fell to the rangers' arrows. Some managed to raise their shields or to duck behind their companions.

Aragorn wasted no time. They could not afford any delays, for the element of surprise only gave them a very temporary advantage. They needed to strike while they still had it. He leapt over the rails of the ship, brandishingAnduril before him. The blade seemed blindingly bright as the pale stubborn rays of the sun reflected off its smooth surface, making it seem as if the sword itself was a flaming beacon. Then again, it was, in a way. It had been many years since the sword of Elendil had come to Gondor, reforged and whole again, just as Gondor was about to be reforged.

He knew his kin were behind him. His standard had been unfurled, and white tree and the seven stars of the king stood out starkly against the black background. A light in the darkness; that was what he was to these people, and he could not possibly let them be disappointed. His kin were behind him, and his friends were with him. What was he waiting for? He was no longer just a ranger. No, that was behind him now. Here, a new chapter would begin, and it would be written in the blood of his enemies.

His battle cry rang out. A challenge to Mordor and everything it stood for. Without waiting to see how his companions would react, he charged into the fray.

* * *

Logan's ears twitched. He heard it. Despite the shouts of men and the clang of metal all around him, he heard the cry, or rather, many battle cries. Finally! It had taken Aragorn long enough. If the ranger had come any later, the battle would have been finished. Others seemed to have come to the same realization, for Éomer was rallying his men with renewed vigour, and even the wounded Éowyn, as pale as she was, looked a bit more spirited when she heard that Aragorn was here. For a fleeting moment, Logan wondered if he really should have counselled against her riding into battle with the men, for it was obvious now that she had not been thinking only of herself and her country when she had made the decision to come with them. Then he decided that it really was none of his business, and at any rate, now was definitely not the time to think about it. He ducked as a troll swung its hammer at him. This seemed to happen a lot. Apparently, trolls liked a bit of a challenge. Well, that was fine with him. He had no aversion to troll killing. It definitely beat killing humans, because with humans, one never knew if they had been forced to do this or whether they had chosen this path for themselves. Trolls were a lot simpler; they wanted to kill, and therefore, Logan felt that his actions against them were justified.

As he darted in to score a blow on the troll's leg —he wished he was taller; then he would have been able to stab something more significant— he saw a red beam shoot out from the city in the corner of his eye, and that destructive beam of light was sweeping towards him. He leapt out of the way just in time. Rubble flew everywhere, and there were terrified shouts and screeches all around him as men and orcs alike sought to escape from this deadly new weapon. The troll Logan had been fighting was not so lucky. The beam struck its midsection, effectively cutting it in half. There was a deep trench in the ground, marking the path of said destructive beam. Logan picked himself up. He couldn't believe it. After all these years, and of all places...

"You've gotta be fucking kiddin' me!"

* * *

Scott could hardly close his eyes quickly enough, but the damage was done. He must have given a new meaning to the term 'friendly fire'. Of all the times for him to regain his powers, they had to come back now, at this crucial moment when he really needed his eyesight. To be blind was to be a sitting target for the orcs. They might be distracted by the Rohirrim down below, but that did not mean that they had forgotten about their objective of taking Minas Tirith. Wind brushed past his ear as one of the orcs tried to strike him and missed. Moments later, there was a screech. Something hot splashed onto him and he jerked away instinctively, only to find that someone had grabbed him by the elbow. "Come with me!" shouted a familiar voice. Gandalf. "It isn't safe for you here!"

"I thought this wasn't safe for anyone!" Scott managed to say. Some humour never went amiss, right? He'd learned that much throughout the past few years.

"You know what I mean, my boy!" said the wizard as he led the mutant...somewhere. Scott didn't exactly know where they were going, only that they were leaving the melee. The din of battle grew fainter, although it was always there. He sniffed; his nose might not be as good as Logan's, but even he could smell well enough to know that he was surrounded by medicinal herbs. Ah, this must be the Houses of Healing. There were many voices, all mingling with one another. Often, he heard hastily suppressed whimpers of pain from the wounded soldiers. The smell of blood was thick in the air.

"Stay," the wizard instructed him. "You will be safe here."

"But..." Scott began, then he trailed off as he realized how useless he would be in battle now that he could no longer see. If he opened his eyes, he would be just as likely to hit their allies as their enemies.

"You have done enough, Scott," said Gandalf. His voice had become more compassionate and gentle. "Now, I really must hurry back. Do not even _think_ of leaving."

* * *

A shadow bore down upon them, making the horses rear in fright, almost tossing their riders. If their riders hadn't been Rohirrim, they might have succeeded, for so great was their fear for the winged steeds of the Nazgûl. The creature dived and swooped, its talons outstretched. Men and horses were snatched, only to be dropped from great heights. The broken bodies rained down on their comrades in a storm of blood and a hail of flesh.

This was a massacre, and if things continued on like this, very soon, all of the éored would be decimated. Which was exactly why Logan couldn't let it go on. He was almost indestructible, and as much as he hated heights, he knew that a bad fall would do a lot less damage to him that it would to most other people. For one, he would never break any bones. So when the dragon-thing went for Éomer and Éowyn, he took the chance and propelled himself into the air with a roar, latching onto the thing's leg. Surprised by this unforeseen attack, the beast pulled up again, taking Logan with him. Oh, wonderful. This was just perfect, wasn't it?

He hated flying. Absolutely loathed it. Being in a plane was bad enough, but hanging onto a dragon's leg was even worse. He could hardly open his eyes because everything seemed to be rushing past him so quickly that simply looking would be enough to make his stomach flip. The wind whistled in his ears. That, combined with the dragon's furious grating cries and its riders screeching and hissing, made it impossible for him to hear anything else. He clung on for dear life, for the reason he hated flying was the feeling that he would inevitably fall. In this case, it was an extremely reasonable assumption. This wasn't exactly the safest form of air travel, and he intended to kill the dragon.

With that thought in mind, Logan reached behind him, straining all his muscles as he tried to bend his body into an impossible shape so that he might be able to grab his sword without letting go of the dragon's leg. The leather-covered hilt felt warm in his hand. He unsheathed the weapon in one swift movement and then thrust upwards. The dragon screamed as the blade pierced its hide and entered flesh, cutting deeply into its body. It's flying grew more and more erratic as it became overbalanced, both by the injury and by the immense weight of the clawed man clinging to its leg.

Logan gritted his teeth and hung on. He wasn't finished with it yet, and he was definitely not going to lose the contents of his stomach while everyone could see, dammit! The sudden drops and rises were making him dizzy. He could taste bile at the back of his throat, and he stubbornly swallowed, trying to keep it down. 'Concentrate, bub!' he told himself. If he focused on something else other than how sick he felt, then perhaps he would be able to delay his body's reaction to the erratic movements. He shimmied up the creature's leg —no mean feat, as the thing was kicking madly in an attempt to shake him off.

There, the belly was within reach. Clinging on with one hand and both legs, Logan lashed out with his claws, slicing open the skin. Blood rained onto him from above. The creature's rider screeched as he realized what was going on. He suddenly swerved, making his steed swerve with him. Logan almost lost his grip, and if not for his claws, he would have done so. He slashed at the dragon's belly again, cutting even deeper this time. "That's for the king, you sonovabitch!" he shouted. Shouting usually made him feel a little better in such situations, especially if he could make himself heard. That meant he had some control over the situation, right?

He pulled his sword out, causing one wing to falter. The beast started falling, but it quickly regained altitude. Wait, were they flying towards Mordor?! There was no choice. He had to kill this thing before they actually reached Mordor, or else he'd be in deep shit. Using his sword and the claws of his left hand like ice picks, he pulled himself up inch by inch towards the beast's neck. At times, he felt himself almost hanging upside down, but he kept on going because he had no other choice. Well, there was one other option, but he wasn't all that keen on it.

Ribcage. Shoulder. Neck. There, he'd made it. His own roar mingled with the cry of the beast as struck its neck with his sword. The blade cut through the scales, the skin and the layer of skin beneath it easily enough. He swung it again, this time making some headway with the muscle. The beast writhed in agony. It no longer had a direction. In fact, it seemed to be spinning, as far as Logan was concerned. At least, it felt that way. He gritted his teeth and snarled as he swung the sword again and again. Why couldn't it have been made of adamantium too? Yes, he knew he was being unreasonable, but then, he had a right to be irrational right now, didn't he? He was hanging onto an airborne dragon while trying to behead it, for fuck's sake!

There was a clang as the sword hit bone. Logan's ears felt as if they were going to burst with all the air pressure and the noise. He hacked at the neck again and again. If Éowyn could do it, then so could he! Blood spurted onto his face, blinding him. He didn't care. He didn't need to see, nor did he need to think. He just needed to hack. It was crude, but it was effective. The beast was falling. Logan could feel the three of them descending at an increasingly rapid pace. Wait...dammit! He was at the bottom! Resistance lessened as he cut right through the bone. Right. It was now or never. Bracing himself for a rough landing, Logan retracted his claws and pushed himself away from the dying dragon. If he had no choice but to fall, then he would rather fall and not have a ton or so of bone and muscle landing on him.

* * *

Men, orcs and trolls scattered to avoid getting crushed by the falling body of the winged beast. In the frenzy, everyone seemed to have forgotten about the man who had slain the creature. Clouds of dust rose as the gargantuan headless corpse hit the ground with a dull thud. Its belly burst open, splattering blood and entrails everywhere.

Merry saw it, and it rendered him speechless. His mouth was dry with fear, not for himself, but for his friend. Logan had to be alive, right? He was indestructible; he'd said so himself! He couldn't die, could he? Could he? "Logan," he whispered. Suddenly, he found his voice again, and desperation lent him strength that he never knew he had. "Logan!" Would Logan be able to hear him? He could hardly hear himself.

"Master Logan!" Éothain had joined in the shouting. It seemed that Logan was actually quite popular with the Rohirrim, despite his tendency to insult people unwittingly. Soon, others lent their voices to the chorus.

"Hold your horses! Figuratively, that is." As the clouds of dust settled, a figure emerged from beneath the folds of the beast's crumpled wings. If Merry hadn't known who it was, he might have recoiled in fear, for that man, if he could even be called a man, was covered in blood and other unnamed matter. His face was obscured by the gore and the dust. However, as it was, a grin spread across his pale face. "You didn't think I was that fragile, did you, bub?" asked the Wolverine breathlessly.

"I knew you weren't—" Merry began. He was cut off in mid-sentence as a high pitched scream of rage cut through the roar of battle, sending cold waves of dread down the men's spines. The winged beast was dead, but its rider was not.

* * *

**A/N: **Oh my, this battle is really taking a long time to write, although I am enjoying every bit of it. I hope you enjoyed it too.

The trailer for my next fanfiction, _Chance Encounter V: Fountain of Youth_, is now available. You will find the link on my profile.


	48. Smoke and Dust

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything that you recognize. It all belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien, New Line Cinema, Marvel and 20****th**** Century Fox.**

**LadyGreySun: **I'm glad you're still enjoying the story. Logan is a softie at heart, methinks, although he doesn't like it when people find out. :P

**Partypony: **Despite my best intentions, I didn't manage to fit Scott in. But at least the battle is over and I can have a breather in the next chapter. I don't usually use coarse language, but I felt that it suited the context. Considering his situation, I think Logan had every right to swear. That's just what I feel. :) You're free to disagree, of course.

**Miss: **Thanks! I'm glad you liked the battles. I have fun writing them, but I'm so glad that this one's over.

_Thank you all for the reviews! They are much appreciated._

**HAPPY HOLIDAY SEASON TO EVERYONE!**

**Chapter 48: Smoke and Dust**

He swallowed as he stared at the black figure looming before him. Now he was in for it. He had tried fighting Ringwraiths twice in the past few months, and none of those attempts had ever been successful. Logan wracked his mind, trying to think of something, just one little detail, that might help him. However, all he could really see was the gap where the black rider's face should have been and the gauntleted hands. Oh, and that really long sword made with a metal that seemed like nothing but shadow from some angles, and a dark shimmering substance from others. Hadn't Aragorn said that a wound from one of those blades —what were they called again? Ah, yes; morgue blades or something rather— could turn other people into wraiths?

Then he had no time to think anymore as the black rider let out a cry which seemed to freeze his blood and made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Logan gritted his teeth as his bones vibrated. Did they have to be so loud and so high pitched? He responded with a snarl, but it seemed pathetic in comparison. Well, there was nothing for it. He was going to have to deal with this thing because no one else really could. Aragorn was busy with his own problems, no doubt, and he could not come to the rescue like that other time at Weathertop. Wait...Weathertop. Hadn't the ranger used fire against these things?

Logan looked around frantically for something to start a fire with, all the while dodging the black rider's sword. It wasn't easy, for although it was undead, the Ringwraith was a skilled swordsman. Or would that be swords-wraith? Either way, he didn't really care about the nomenclature; he just wanted to burn something.

A memory surfaced. There was a spark, a trail of fuel and an explosion. He could even feel the heat of the fire on his back. Where had the spark come from? Yes, he had it! "I need something to burn! Oil, paper, grass, torch!" he shouted, hoping that someone would be able to hear him above the din and would get him what he needed. Or, better yet, someone would burn the damn thing for him. Fortunately, someone did hear him. He heard Éomer shouting for fire. Moments later, arrows whistled overhead. Burning arrows. Logan dropped and rolled—he had no desire to become a pin cushion; that had never been one of his career choices— as he saw the flaming projectiles. They left streaks of light in his vision that lingered on for a while.

He clambered to his feet. The wraith's robes had caught fire easily enough, and it was beating at the flames, to no avail. It fled from them, leaving a charred trail and a stream of smoke behind it. As the fabric of its robes became ash, the figure suddenly crumpled. Something emerged from the pile of robes and quickly disappeared. It all happened so quickly that Logan only saw that vague shape in the air disappear.

"Did we kill it?" asked one of the riders. He was clutching his bow tightly, and his face was pale with fear.

"No," said Logan. "It'll come back. We just got rid of it for a time." Not that it really mattered, for they were surrounded by legion upon legion of orcs and Easter people. He glanced at the éored. Although they still held themselves proudly, he could see that they were exhausted, and that they were losing hope, for they were greatly outnumbered by their enemies. Unlike that time at Helm's Deep, they had no fortress of stone to protect them, for Minas Tirith was still far away.

Then a horn rang out, true and clear. Logan recognized that horn.

Boromir had come.

* * *

From the wall, he had seen the ships come, and he had known, in that moment, that victory could be in their grasp, if only they reached out just a little further. It had been a risky move, but he had gone ahead with it anyway. There was no victory without risk. From his post on the battlements of the sixth level, Boromir had lifted his horn to his lips and let out three sharp blasts, rallying Gondor's sons. Together with the forces of Dol Amroth, led by his uncle Prince Imrahil, they had charged through the streets of the city, carving a path of blood through the masses of orcs.

Their enemies were taken by surprise, for they had not expected the men of Gondor to put of such a fierce counter attack after having been besieged for so long, but the men's spirits were buoyed by the knowledge that soon, there would be a king in Gondor again. Their long awaited king. They could all sense that great change was at hand. Boromir could not possibly guess what the future would bring, although it wasn't for a lack of trying. Gondor had simply been under the rule of the Stewards for so long that they had all forgotten what it felt like to be a kingdom _with_ a king.

He saw the Rohirrim, surrounded by hordes of seething black bodies, although they were showing no signs of giving up. And was that...

"Have the women of Rohan also ridden to our aid?" said Imrahil, astounded by the sight of such a fair maiden on the battlefield.

Boromir shook his head. No, that would not make sense. He could see only Éowyn so far, but most of the riders' faces were covered by their helmets. However, judging from their build, they had to be men, or at least, he hoped so. Women had no place on the battlefield. They ought to be treasured and protected, not put in the front line to be dispatched by merciless metal. If he had a wife or a sister, he certainly would not have let her ride out with him into war. Instead, he would have sent her far away to safety, so why was Éowyn here?

"Boromir!" It was Logan. The shout drew him out of his thoughts. The question of women in war could wait. Right now, there were men to save and a battle to win. His sword cleaved through flesh and metal. Black blood mingled with red. His own battle cries were drowned by the sounds of clashing metal and the screams of horses, men and orcs as he and his men charged through the fray. The sight of Imrahil's legendary Swan Knights, clad in their signature silver armour with the winged helmets, emboldened the Rohirrim and at the same time, drove fear into the hearts of their enemies. The reputation of the Knights preceded them.

"You're alive!" shouted Logan as Boromir drew near. Despite the severity of the situation, the Gondorian captain could not help but grin.

"With your warning constantly in my mind, can I not be?" he shouted back as he cleaved an axe-wielding Easterling from head to sternum. Battle was not very conducive to conversation, for he could hardly hear himself above the roar of war, but Logan seemed to have heard well enough, for he responded with a grin of his own before returning to the business at hand. Gore splattered everywhere —for unlike the equally lethal elves, Logan was not a tidy killer. Blood soaked the earth to feed the seeds that lay dormant beneath it. The battlefield was where death and birth met. By this time next year, Boromir was certain that the grass on the Pelennor Fields would once again be green as if nothing had happened. That was, if the darkness of Mordor had not spread all over Middle Earth by then.

Everything hung in the balance as bodies seethed. The many booted feet and iron hooves churned the bloody earth below them into rust-coloured mud. And then someone raised the call. "The King! The King!" Boromir risked looking up and he glimpsed the standard. He could see the design of it clearly now. The White Tree, crowned with seven silver stars, and above that, the crown of the king. It flew tall and proud, a symbol of renewal, not just for Gondor, but for all the free peoples of the west. He could not recognize its bearers, but it was clear that they were his kindred from the north. The Dúnedain had come at last!

* * *

"It took you long enough!" Logan shouted to Gimli as he caught sight of the dwarf. His friend seemed to be intent on making for the lost time —not that he could possibly beat Logan's score; who else could say that he had hijacked a giant elephant, killed a troll and slain a dragon all in the matter of a few hours? "If you'd come any later, the battle would have been over!"

"It was a long detour, laddie!" the dwarf shouted back above the noise. He swung his axe in a wide arc, driving the head squarely into the body of an orc and sending it flying backwards. "You try dealing with the ghosts of oathbreakers!"

"I don't see any ghosts!" The Wolverine slammed his foot into an orc's head. Now _that_ was a high kick. The skull cracked upon impact and brain matter oozed out. Disgusting, but nothing that Logan had not seen before. "And I don't see the others either—" He was cut off in midsentence as he dived out of the way of a maddened charging elephant. It was one of the few that remained, but still, it was causing a disproportionate amount of damage as it charged through the ranks of both its masters and its foes. Then again, master and foe could be synonymous in this situation, especially if one was a giant elephant.

That was when he noticed the fact that the men riding the elephant were panicking, and closer inspection revealed that the basket on the elephant's back was falling. Then no one took any notice of the falling basket as the elephant itself stumbled and then fell onto its knees before collapsing. It was all Logan could do to keep from gaping —and he had to admit that he failed for just a moment— when Legolas landed on his feet, having 'surfed' on the elephant's flailing trunk. It was impossible, no, improbable, and yet, here was the elf, looking as if he had just taken a walk in Elrond's gardens save for a few smudges of dirt and just the slightest hint of breathlessness. He wasn't the only one staring. Most of the men, and one outraged dwarf, were doing exactly the same thing.

"Well?" said the elf. He grinned, and if he did not look so angelic, Logan would have said that it was a smug smirk.

"It's still only one!" declared Gimli.

"What?" said Logan. That did not work so well. He did not go to all that effort to kill that dragon only for it to be counted as being the equivalent to one measly orc. "No! Body mass matters!"

"And killing one of those is no mean feat!" Boromir added, shouting at the top of his voice so that he might be heard above the furious sputtering of Gimli and the short but insistent statements from Logan. His face was haggard with exhaustion but even he was grinning as he rode up to greet them. "Master dwarf, I am afraid you are outnumbered!"

"Whose side are you on?" demanded Gimli. The dwarf would have treated him to the full effect of a proper dwarvish glare, but he was distracted when one of the braver orcs decided that it wouldn't be so difficult to take out a warrior of slighter height than all the rest of them. A big mistake on his part, for Gimli was determined not to have Legolas outshine him. The orc found itself lying in several twitching pieces on the ground only moments later.

No one else was idle either. After the initial shock of seeing the elf 'surfing' —for lack of a better word— was over, the forces of Mordor had been semi-successful in rallying. While the bodies of the orcs and of the Easter men were strewn all over the ground, there were still many of them left, and with such overwhelming numbers, they were not about to give up just yet.

"Hey, didn't you say Aragorn went to get help from a bunch of phantoms stuck in limbo?" Logan asked Legolas and Gimli. In the end, despite everything, they were still surrounded. All he could see were orcs and their crude weaponry, all emblazoned with a painted red eye. They bared their yellowed teeth at him, and he responded with a snarl of his own. Such things never changed. It was natural instinct. He'd been born with it. If someone showed aggression, then he had to show more.

"He did," said Legolas. The elf was standing just behind Logan along with the few archers that they had. They were the second ring of defence. Logan felt sorry for those who had shields, because they were the first. "But he released them."

"Why the hell did he do that?" Indeed, why let go of the reinforcements before the battle was over? It made no sense. Then again, little in Middle Earth made sense to him.

"He promised them," said Legolas. "Besides, are you truly saying that you do not have the ability to defeat a few orcs?" The elf was using psychology against him and he knew it, but Logan couldn't help letting a growl escape from his throat. That happened whenever anyone implied that he wasn't good enough at something, even if it was sewing. Well, there was no point in answering Legolas. The elf was always quick with smart comebacks. It was much easier to take out his frustration on the orcs. The best defence was a good offence, he always said.

Apparently, the others agreed with him. He exchanged glances with his friends. Legolas had two arrows to the string and Gimli seemed to be ready to raise hell, as usual. Boromir simply nodded when Logan's gaze met his and then raised his sword.

The united battle cry had no words, nor did it need any. The meaning was clear enough. As long as they still had breath they were going to fight, and they were not afraid to die.

* * *

He pushed all doubt aside; now was not the time to wonder. Gondor needed him to be certain. They all did, actually, all those people who had put their faith in him. Arwen, Elrond, his brothers, even Boromir. Aragorn felt as if he bore the weight of Middle Earth on his shoulders. Halbarad rode beside him, carrying the standard that Arwen had so lovingly made for him. Each stitch was a symbol of her faith in him, and there had to be hundreds, if not thousands of stitches. No, he could not fail her.

On his other side were his brothers. All mirth had left their countenances. They were no longer the light-hearted twins he was so used to seeing, for their hatred for the orcs and their desire to avenge their mother, although somewhat quenched, although never fully sated, turned them into stone-faced warriors. They would not be turning this into a competition as Legolas and Gimli had. It was no game to them.

Anduril sang as it cut through the air. The keen blade sliced through muscle, sinew and bone. Heads and limbs flew. Blood splashed onto his hands, his face. His horse's flanks were stained with the sticky dark liquid. There weren't very many of them, but if they could somehow join with the Rohirrim, they would be able to split the forces of Mordor into two, thus weakening them. That was probably not within the orcs' calculations, and they did not adapt so well to sudden changes on the battlefield. That was one of the few advantages they had against them, for the sheer number of enemies usually meant that most advantages were negated.

They cut through enemy ranks like an arrowhead. It was a show of sheer force —force which they did not really have— but determination made up for numbers. They all knew what was at stake. There were no illusions about that.

The Rohirrim and the Gondorians were but one small patch of light in the sea of seething dark bodies, and they seemed to be constantly under the threat of being swallowed up. Arrows were flying in every direction. The defenders had formed a ring, and a rather large one at that, although their ranks were thin. However, they were making some progress, despite appearances. It was a miracle, really, that they could all fight alongside one another in seemingly perfect coordination. No one was accidentally shooting his comrades, and even Logan seemed to understand what it meant to work as part of a group instead of as a single unit all on his own.

He heard men cheer as he drew near them. It should have come as no surprise, but some part of him was still bewildered that his sheer presence could make such a difference. It would take some getting used to. No amount of preparation would have sufficed, at any rate. He knew that from experience. Not that he could think about such things at the moment, for there was a battle to be won.

The orcs, upon realizing what they were about to do, retaliated fiercely. It seemed that they were not quite so ignorant after all. Crossbows were fired. The wargs turned on the Dúnedain, their great yellow teeth ripping into the flesh of both horses and riders. Many men fell under the onslaught. Still, no one turned back. They knew that there were only two ways out. They could either win this battle, or they could die. It was that simple.

One of the larger animals leapt at Halbarad, its slavering jaws wide open as it went in for the kill, only it never managed to quite reach him.

* * *

The spear flew true, just as he had hoped. It pierced the warg's neck from behind, cutting through vital arteries and going straight into the brain. The creature convulsed as it fell, and then with one last twitch, it lay quite still, its lips still curled back in a silent snarl. Aragorn's standard bearer saluted him in thanks, and Boromir gave a slight nod of acknowledgement before turning back to the task at hand. The wolves of Mordor were baying for blood. They were going to get it, of course, although it was going to come from them instead.

He lifted his shield in time to block the blow from an axe-wielding warg rider. The weapon glanced off the surface, leaving one more dent in the metal. Instead of attempting to attack the rider, Boromir turned his attention to the steed, for a warg rider without a mount was much less of a threat than a warg on its own. He slammed his shield into the orc to distract the warg and then as it turned towards him with his mouth open, he plunged his sword through the roof of the creature's mouth. Steel grated against bone as the blade went through the thick skull. He yanked it out with a roar. The blade was stained with blood and a pale semi-solid matter. A snarl behind him made him wheel his horse around.

A troll, one of the more intelligent ones, unfortunately, was lumbering towards the ring of defenders, wielding its mace with deadly accuracy. With one swipe, it sent men and horses flying into the air. Arrows did very little, for it wore a thick chest plate of beaten iron, and the arrows could hardly pierce its thick hide enough to do much damage. If someone did not do something, and very soon, the defenders would probably be decimated.

Boromir dug his spurs into his horse's sides, snatching up a fallen orc pike along the way. Who would do it if not him? He was the Captain General of Gondor and the son of the Steward. The king might be here, but the men still looked to him all the same and, at any rate, Aragorn was not close enough to deal with the troll. He snatched up a fallen orc pike —not the ideal weapon, but he couldn't exactly choose at the moment. Men parted to let him through, or to get out of the way of the troll. It was hard to tell.

As he was about to thrust the spear into one of the gaps in the troll's armour, the creature suddenly turned with speed that belied its size. Boromir barely managed to jump out of the saddle as the troll's mace slammed into his horse. Screams from both men and horses rang out as the broken body of Boromir's stallion flew through the air to land amongst the defenders.

Boromir rolled to his feet. Somehow, he had retained the spear. He stood before the troll. His muscles were tense as he looked for an opening in the creature's defences. Unfortunately, it knew that, and it was determined not to have the same fate as so many others of its race. The man and the beast stared at one another; neither was willing to be the first to attack. Then Boromir lost patience. The troll might have time, but he did not. He lunged forward, thrusting his spear towards the troll's throat. At the last moment, the creature dodged. The spear bent slightly as it hit the impenetrable chest plate, and then splintered as the troll swiped at it with an arm resembling that of a catapult. Boromir stumbled from the impact. All he had was his sword, and that was no use if he could not even reach the troll without being flattened by that mace. He ducked as the troll struck out at him. The wind whistled as the spiked metal ball passed over his head.

For a moment, as the troll sought to stop the mace and control its momentum, Boromir saw an opening. He darted forward, hoping to hamstring the creature. His sword bit into the troll's leg, but the angle was wrong and he missed the tendon. He never got another chance again, for the troll snarled and sidestepped. If he hadn't just leapt out of the way, he would have been crushed.

The creature was beyond furious. It was out for blood, and Boromir knew it would not rest until one of them was dead. It would most likely be him.

* * *

Éomer saw Boromir's plight, and his first instinct was to ride to his aid, but then he thought of his wounded sister. How could he fight a troll while bearing her in front of him? Not only would it not help Boromir since he knew that the honourable Gondorian was probably also very concerned for Éowyn, but if he was not careful enough, all three of them could die. Trolls were not to be trifled with.

And then, from nowhere, Gimli charged out. His axe was covered in the blood of his enemies and so was his face —and his luxuriant beard too. Horses reared in surprise at the sight of the short but sturdy being as he ran past them. The dwarf launched himself at the troll's legs, swinging his axe at them as if they were trunks of trees. That in itself was not too far from the truth, for the texture of the skin reminded Éomer of bark, and the limbs were certainly as thick as tree trunks.

The heavy axe head meant that the force of the blow was much greater than that of a sword, and the edge was just as keen. It cut through skin and muscle, although it did not quite reach bone. Still, it was enough to distract the troll. Despite his short stature, the dwarf was fast. He sidestepped just as the troll was about to step on him and then struck again, this time higher and closer to the knee. He was intent on killing the creature, probably to make up for Legolas' mûmak.

Being short had its advantages, obviously, for the troll made several attempts at hitting Gimli with its mace, but each time, it either misjudged the dwarf's height or the dwarf was simply able to duck. It was like watching a small terrier tormenting a bull. The little cuts Gimli made were ineffectual, but it was driving the troll mad, and it its madness, it let down its guard.

Boromir had not been idle. He had found another long spear —this one was of Rohirrim make and therefore of a much higher quality. While the troll was distracted, he drove it into the gap in its armour with all his might. The spearhead pierced the troll's underarm area, where the hide was thinner and tender. It went in at such an angle that it punctured the creature's lung.

Dark blood bubbled from the troll's mouth. It roared in anger and ripped the spear from its side, which only worsened the wound. The creature lurched and staggered before falling to its knees. It was desperately sucking in air as it drowned in its own blood, but nevertheless, it did not give up on its mission of destruction. Those great arms were clubs in their own right and men had to take care to stay out of its reach, lest they became victims of its death throes.

* * *

The battle was long and hard, not that they had expected anything less. By the end of it, however, the free peoples of the west emerged victorious, although they had suffered many losses. Of the thirty rangers who had come with Aragorn, only a dozen survived. Most of the men carried wounds of varying degrees of seriousness. The only one who could be called unscathed was Logan. The ground was carpeted with the bodies of the fallen. Smoke rose from still smouldering fires. It was hard to see the extent of the carnage, due to the fact that some of the larger bodies, namely those of the mûmakil and the trolls blocked the view.

Surviving enemy soldiers —just the men; orcs were killed, for they had no chance for redemption— were rounded up and made prisoners. A few mûmakil still lived, and they stood over the bodies of their fallen comrades, as if in mourning. No, there was no 'as if'. These giant beasts _were_ mourning. In fact, they were dragging bits of debris over the bodies. Logan watched, open-mouthed. He had heard of African elephants burying their dead in 'elephant graveyards', but to watch a similar thing happen in such an alien world was...well, he couldn't really describe it. There was a melancholic beauty about it, and it made him remember that he had his own comrades to tend to.

He spotted Aragorn not so far away, talking to Éomer, Boromir, and a few other strangers whom he did not recognize. No doubt they had important business to discuss; business which the Wolverine would have no way of understanding. All he could do was to try and use his superior senses to locate wounded survivors on the battlefield.

It was tedious work. At times, the sights and smell of death were overwhelming. It was disheartening to find corpse after corpse, or even worse, bits of corpses. The crows had already begun feeding on the carrion. The bodies of their fallen comrades were lifted onto carts to be taken into the city. The more distinguished dead were carried on biers. What they were going to do with the dead, Logan did not know, but then again, it was probably none of his business. Going by common sense, he assumed that those who had fallen on foreign soil would be burned so that their ashes might be taken home to their families. It wasn't as if these people had aircraft to take their dead home.

As he loaded the bodies onto the carts, he realized that he knew many of the faces. He'd seen them grinning, frowning, laughing. Now they were lifeless, some still contorted in silent screams. The Wolverine recalled other battlefields. The contexts were vague, but the sense of loss and the entire macabre atmosphere was still the same. He shivered despite his best efforts. It was hard to control his emotions now that the rage of battle was over. He no longer wanted blood. Hell, he would be more than happy if he never had to see another battlefield again in his life, but that was impossible. As Victor had said, he was born to fight, to kill. Why else would he have those claws of his? He was a predator. It was in his nature. And as it was, he was in the middle of a war that still needed a conclusion. This battle was won, but there would be more before the Dark Lord of Mordor could be truly vanquished. He drew in ragged breaths as he combed the battlefield. Even after all those wars, he could not fail to be moved. His skeleton might be made of cold remorseless metal, but his heart certainly wasn't.

Logan felt someone put a hand on his shoulder and looked up to see Elrohir, or was it Elladan? It was hard to tell. "If you feel the need to weep, then do so," said the dark-haired elf. "There is no cause for shame."

"Forget it," said Logan. "Tears are a waste of moisture. I learned that long ago."

"That may be, but the hearts of men, and of elves, are not entirely rational," said the son of Elrond. "Even Elladan and I cannot become accustomed to this, despite the many battles we have fought. I do understand what you are feeling."

"Then you'll understand that I don't want to think about it," said Logan. His voice sounded harsher than he had intended, but what could he do? It was hard enough to remain in control as it was. So many young lives snuffed out. Soon, their bodies would become nothing but dust. Their families might remember them, but as the centuries passed, their memories would dissipate like smoke in the wind. It was altogether too depressing. He needed to take his mind off it. "I didn't see you during battle."

"My brother and I were with Estel," said Elrohir. "I saw _you_, even if you did not see me."

"You were on horseback. That's a better vantage point," said Logan as he turned over yet another dead orc to see if there was anyone underneath it. It seemed so callous to be talking about such frivolous things, but it was what he needed. He could only deal with so much seriousness before it drove him crazy, and there was enough wrong with his head.

"I heard that you had a much better vantage point for a while," said Elrohir. "Yes, the tales are beginning to spread. I know about your mûmak."

"Speaking of mûmakil, what are you gonna do with the survivors?" asked the Wolverine. Their fate was something close to his heart, for as unlikely as it seemed, he sympathized with them. Like him, they had been used as tools by men with dark ambitions. They had not wanted to come to battle; they were merely collateral damage.

"They are dangerous creatures," said Elrohir. "Of course, their fate is not for me to decide. I shall leave such decisions up to Estel and those who hold a position of power in Gondor."

"If there's one thing I know about powerful men, it's that they can never _ever_ reach a consensus."

"Indeed, which is why the word of one man in particular is worth more than all the rest. We call that man a king."

* * *

**A/N: **I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I encountered a bit of a creative rut while writing it, but at least the battle is over now and the story can move on. Finally.


	49. Bittersweet Memories

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything that you recognize. It all belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien, New Line Cinema, Marvel and 20****th**** Century Fox.**

**Miss: **Thanks!

**Party Pony: **There is absolutely no need to apologize. You merely stated your view, and I stated my reasoning. :) As far as I'm concerned, that was just a civilized discussion.

**Gemini: **At this point in time, I doubt I'll be adding any new major characters. I think I have a big enough cast already. ;)

_**Happy New Year, everyone! I hope that 2010 will be a prosperous year filled with blessings and pleasant surprises for you all!**_

**Chapter 49: Bittersweet Memories**

The battle of over, and they had survived it, but Boromir could not help feeling a sense of trepidation as he rode inside the city beside Aragorn. Actually, no. He rode in alongside Elessar, soon-to-be High King of Gondor. Flanking them were the sons of Elrond and behind them, the Dúnedain, bearing their dead and wounded. The banner of the king flew high in the breeze so that all could see the shining crown of Elendil above the White Tree and the seven stars of the king.

Such an entrance would have garnered much attention if everyone else had not been so occupied with sifting through the rubble in search of survivors. The Captain of the White Tower wondered how his father would react to it. Captain Thorongil was once again in Gondor, only this time, he was here to claim the throne instead of merely help the Steward to protect Gondor's sovereignty. He himself was feeling a little uneasy, despite having decided to welcome the king. Men were not so keen on change, and he was no different.

Gandalf greeted them on the second level. The White Wizard's robes were stained with soot and the black blood of the orcs, but a tired smile graced his face as he bowed to the king. Aragorn acknowledged his old friend's greeting not by getting off his horse and bidding him to rise, as the ranger would have, but by dipping his head as he accepted the respect that was now his due.

Boromir glanced at Aragorn to try and discern his thoughts. The other man looked grave, but apart from that, he was very difficult to read. The elves had schooled him well, and he was masking his emotions very successfully, although there was a hint of nervousness. That was only to be expected. He was the first king to ride inside Minas Tirith for many centuries. There were so many expectations placed upon his shoulders. Men saw him as their saviour, the one who would lead them into victory against Mordor, despite the Dark Lord's overwhelming forces.

No one spoke as they rode through the many levels of the city. The sound of hooves on stone echoed. There was keening in the distance as someone discovered a perished loved one in the rubble. Boromir bowed his head. He knew that it was not his fault, but he could not help blaming himself for failing to protect his people from such tragedy.

The Dúnedain took their injured to the Houses of Healing, taking leave of the main company. Logan went with them, saying that he was no diplomat and therefore would rather go somewhere where he would be useful. The others rode on; there was no time to waste, and as much as Boromir wanted to go with the Dúnedain to the Houses of Healing so that he might see how his brother was faring, he knew that it was his duty to go with Aragorn to meet his father. Denethor might have said that he would allow the king to return, but saying and accepting were two very different things. His father's temper was unpredictable at the very best.

The seventh level was silent and abandoned, save for a few guards. They whispered when they saw the standard of the king, and then, after exchanging a few glances, they knelt and did homage to Aragorn. The king-to-be and his company dismounted. As well as the sons of Elrond, Boromir, Legolas and Gimli, Imrahil had also accompanied them. Boromir suspected that his uncle was thinking of more or less the same thing as he was.

* * *

The Houses of Healing were bustling with activity as the wounded kept pouring in. Extra beds had been set up. The screams and whimpers of pain were overwhelming. The air was filled with the coppery scent of blood. Healers were constantly moving, their robes and white aprons stained with red. Logan saw many familiar faces amongst the wounded and the dying. For some, the only comfort that could be offered them was human presence as they passed onto the next world, if there really was an afterlife. They all seemed to believe in one and Logan hoped that for their sake, they were right, for they clung to the hope that they would once again see their loved ones in the next life. It would be so much more depressing if they thought that they faced eternal nothingness.

He spoke to them as they passed, promising to relay messages back to any surviving friends and family. It was all that he could do, for his first aid training was inadequate when it came to such life-threatening wounds. More than once, he glimpsed the stark whiteness of bone through gaping ragged wounds. From the healer's muted talk, he knew that Éowyn was housed somewhere less crowded. Being a lady had its benefits, not that Logan could begrudge her this privilege. No, indeed, he felt she deserved it, for it seemed that no one else could have slain the Witch King. She probably saved many lives and contributed greatly to their bitter victory.

With all the activity going on, it was so easy to miss the man sitting silent but restless in the corner, with a blindfold covering his eyes. In fact, if Logan hadn't suddenly looked briefly in his way coincidentally, he would not have noticed him either. However, once he did see the man, it was hard to ignore his presence. Making sure that he wasn't getting in anyone's way, or that no one needed him at the moment, he made his way slowly over to the man, taking care not to startle him. Who knew what could happen if he opened his eyes in surprise? He doubted that the piece of cloth could do anything to stop those destructive beams.

"I'd ask if you were happy to see me, but seeing as you can't see, I don't really see the point in it," said Logan.

* * *

Scott almost leapt to his feet in surprise, and if he hadn't had years of practise when it came to keeping his eyes closed, he probably would have given the Houses of Healing a new sunroof or blasted a new gate for the city. In fact, considering where he was, the consequences could have been much worse than just the destruction of stonework. So he was very glad that unlike _some_ people, he had a pretty good degree of self control.

"Of all the people I could have expected to see in Middle Earth, you were very low on the list," said Scott. He was not going to beg Logan for news. He never begged, and to beg Logan of all people was just unthinkable. Yes, he knew it was immature of him. After all, they were probably the only two mutants in this entire place, barring the orcs who were supposedly mutated elves —mutilations could not be inherited, after all, according to the laws of genetics.

"I'm surprised you even had a list of people you could expect to see in Middle Earth, considering the fact you can't open your eyes without obliterating everything in your sight." Ah yes. The same old Logan, only with a quicker mind and a sharper tongue. Apparently, spending time in the company of lords and princes had honed his skill when it came to pointless debates.

"Is your sole purpose in coming to Middle Earth to torment me? Because if it is, then you are wasting your time. I have much greater concerns."

"Hey, I didn't even plan on comin' here, and I'm tryin' to be nice, so don't act as if you've got a stick up your arse, all right? Unless, of course, you really do have a stick up your arse, and in that case, I'll probably have to go and get someone to remove it for you."

"And you said you were trying to be nice?"

"The key word there being 'trying'. You make it especially hard. Come on, we just survived a war. The least you could do is ask me how I am."

"Knowing you, you're probably fine." He was being immature. There were a billion questions he wanted to ask Logan, but if the other man was not going to offer, then...oh. Maybe he _will_ have to beg, just in a very dignified manner.

"That's true, but it would have been nice if someone had asked. It's common courtesy, or did you lose that too when you lost your glasses?"

Scott sighed. Logan won this round. "Look, Logan. Don't make me beg. I know you've got things to tell me, and you know I really want to hear them. So don't go around in circles."

"You didn't say the magic word," said Logan. Scott gritted his teeth. Three years had not changed anything. He had thought that he would have grown more mature, that he was beyond such pettiness, but Logan's attitude was still able to make him grit his teeth. He had underestimated the animosity between them. Wait...were Logan and Jean now...?

"Please," said Scott as calmly as he could. He needed Logan to tell him everything.

"Well, since you asked so nicely..." began the Wolverine. He paused. "I'm not sure how to begin, to be totally honest with you."

"The beginning, Logan," said Scott. He leaned forward, eager to catch every word the Wolverine had to offer. "How is everyone?"

"That's the hard part," said Logan. Scott could almost hear him squirming. A feeling of dread started to grow within him. Was something wrong? "Um...you see...after you died —well, we thought you'd died, since everything around Alkali Lake was floating in mid air, including your glasses— we found Jean by the lake an brought her home. At least, we thought it was Jean..."

* * *

Logan tried to make it as painless as possible, both for his sake and for Scott's. He didn't tell him about the way Phoenix had tried to...errr..._seduce_ him. He didn't describe how the Professor had died —awfully unpleasant way to go, that— and he tried his best not to go into detail about the events at Alcatraz. However, there was no way to go around telling Scott that he had been the one who had stopped Dark Phoenix. That left little to the imagination. Although Logan had never thought highly of Scott, and still didn't, there was no denying that Cyclops had an intellect that was above most people. Those math puzzles he used to give to his students were beyond confusing. So it wasn't so hard for the younger man to put the pieces together to reach the final conclusion.

It was entirely awkward and depressing. Here they were, surrounded by blood and death, and they were thinking about more death. Logan felt that he ought to show some gesture of condolence. After all, Scott had lost his fiancée and his mentor, and had found out about it all at once. That had to hurt. He was about to reach out to place a hand on the other man's shoulder, but then he hesitated. He and Scott weren't on the best of terms. Perhaps it would be best to wait until the other man had gained control over his emotions.

Scott was clenching and unclenching his hands, as if he wanted to kill something, but didn't know what. "I'm sorry," said Logan quietly, and he meant it. He knew how the other man was feeling right now. He himself almost felt as if he was reliving everything again, and fancied he could still smell Jean's blood on his hands. "I don't know what I can do, but if there's anything—"

"No, Logan. _I_ am sorry," said Scott. "I should have been there instead of here. Maybe if I had been there, I could have done something to stop her, to save her—"

"Hey, hey, hey. Don't you go blamin' yourself and wallowing in pointless guilt," said Logan. "It wasn't your fault that you weren't there, and no one's blamin' you, 'cept yourself. You didn't ask to be sent here, just like I didn't ask for it, but we are here, and we might as well make the best of it. What's done is done. There's no going back. Now, I think I've done enough talking. It's your turn. How did you get to Minas Tirith?"

Logan tried not to interrupt as Scott told him how he had been more or less adopted by the family of a blacksmith in Minas Tirith, and was now betrothed to the blacksmith's sister. He certainly had gone on with his life as well as he could have, given the circumstances. "So...they just feed you and house you and clothe you?" he finally asked, unable to hold back any longer.

"I'm not a charity case, Logan," said Scott. "As always, I earn my keep. I might not be able to do much, but I've always had a head for numbers. I do Maeneth's brother's accounts for him and suggest ways to improve his business. He is a skilled craftsman, but he has no mind for business."

"Well, you seem to have settled in," said Logan.

"Not as well as you have, it seems. A friend of Lord Boromir himself! Who would have thought?"

"Hey, what's so surprising about that?" Logan was full of indignation. Why should it be so surprising that he was friends with Boromir? "He's a good guy, I'm a good guy, and we get on."

"You can't deny that you've got luck on your side," said Scott. "I got taken in by a good family, but you got taken in by some of the most important people in Middle Earth! Right, I know, I know. You didn't plan for this to happen. So, tell me, how did you even meet Lord Boromir? It seems like a bit of an odd coincidence. I mean, Middle Earth is a big place."

It was Logan's turn to tell a story, and what a tale he spun. He didn't even know he had it in him to be so eloquent. All right, so he needed prompts and corrections, and he sometimes had to pause to remember things, but at least he got the general timeline right. He mentioned meeting Aragorn outside Bree, skipped out everything about the Ring and produced such a garbled version of the reason behind the formation of the Fellowship —and his need to go after them on his own— that he doubted anyone could understand him. Still, Scott must have gotten the general gist of the story and if he didn't, well, that wasn't important. He could get someone else with better story-telling skills to recount the tale to him once everything was over and there was no longer any need to keep secrets about Frodo and the Ring. "—so here I am, after having ridden for hours and hours in that goddamned saddle. Well?"

"So much has happened...I got quite dizzy trying to figure it all out," said Scott. "No, I'm not surprised that you're somehow involved in a quest to save the world. You always seem to be doing that kind of thing, ever since I first met you."

"How do you know?" asked Logan. "To be blunt, we only met about...four years ago, at the very most?"

"Not true," said Scott. He fell silent, as if contemplating something very important. "Look, I probably should have told you this earlier, but the Professor said that it would be best if I let you remember on your own. However, you are already beginning to remember —you even found out about your long lost brother— so I suppose it is time you heard this from someone, if you haven't already remembered it."

"Huh?" said Logan. He was utterly confused. What on earth was One-Eye on about now?

"I first met you nineteen years ago, when I was still a teenager," said Cyclops. "You probably don't remember seeing me, but I sure as hell remember hearing you. You saved my life."

* * *

Their footsteps echoed within the silent and seemingly abandoned hall. Denethor sat upon his seat at the foot of the throne, as still as one of the many statues that adorned the place. It was impossible to read his face, for the Steward seemed to be made of stone. That was, until he had had the time to fully take in the appearance of the man who had come to claim his inheritance. Then he leapt to his feet, his expression one of incredulity and utter shock. "It is you!" he whispered.

"Not what I was," said Aragorn quietly. "Nor are you." For a moment, the two men faced each other. One stoic, and one going through an array of emotions. No one else dared to break the tense silence, and Boromir was beginning to wonder if he should have warned his father about the legendary Captain Thorongil being the Heir of Isildur.

Denethor seemed to be taking all of this in slowly. Captain Thorongil, the heir to the throne of Gondor indeed! Who would have thought? It beggared belief, and was possibly one of the best kept secrets in all of Middle Earth. Then again, it had to be, for Aragorn's life and the survival of the line of Kings had depended upon it.

With each passing moment, the gathered men became more and more nervous. Neither the king-to-be nor the Steward had moved much, and Boromir was reminded of two stallions trying to stare each other down before attacking, not that it was appropriate to compare his father and his liege to horses. In fact, that was something that Logan would think of, probably. Suddenly, he realized his brash friend's wisdom in not coming with them. He could think of a thousand ways Logan could create a diplomatic crisis in such a situation, and none of them sounded particularly pleasant.

At last, the Steward spoke. His voice had become so cold that it would have frozen a lesser man's blood. It could not have been easy for him to speak civilly to the man who had come to replace him as the ruler of Gondor, but for Gondor's sake, and out of respect for his son's wishes, he seemed to be trying extremely hard to keep his personal emotions from tainting this exchange, and Boromir was grateful for that. "Then I welcome you, milord," said the Steward. It sounded forced, but no one commented on it. All knew of Denethor's pride, and for him to humble himself thus was already a great effort on his part.

Aragorn made no comment on the cold courtesy of his steward. Instead, he accepted the frosty welcome with good grace, not that anything less could be expected of him. "You have done much to keep Gondor safe," he said. "The people of this kingdom are indebted to you."

"It is no debt at all, for it was my duty to do so," said Denethor. "No true son of Gondor would leave her borders unattended whilst her enemies threatened her safety." Ah, that cold courtesy had been too good to last. Here was a barb of the most acute sort, and it was impossible to miss. For many years, Aragorn had been rather far away from Gondor, no doubt attending to his duties elsewhere, but they were all certain that some part of him regretted that he had not been in his own country when it most needed aid.

It was at this crucial moment that Gandalf stepped in, not to defend Aragorn —for as king, he had to be more than capable of defending himself— but to avert this pointless debate over where duty lay. "Indeed, it was your duty, my lord Steward," said the wizard, "and now it is your duty, as steward to the king, to prepare for further endeavours by Mordor to breach our defences."

"I have handed over the command of Gondor's armies to my sons, if you recall, Gandalf," said Denethor. "There is nothing here for me to do. I am merely an obsolete steward, who, now that he has done his duty, is cast away as the smith casts away his tools when they are broken and no longer useful." The comparison was painful, and yet, there was some truth to it. Denethor sat back down upon his chair of black stone, his sceptre in his hands. It was so awkward. Someone ought to say something, but what could anyone say in response to that? To deny it would be a lie, for they were slowly pushing Denethor aside as far as planning the defence of Middle Earth was concerned. Nor was anyone willing to admit that it was the truth. They had to proceed carefully from here.

"Gondor still recognizes you as her steward," said Gandalf calmly to Denethor. Not once did the wizard's gaze waver as he stared into Denethor's eyes, willing him to see the broader picture. "These are not only Aragorn's people, but your people also, or would you disown them?"

"I would never disown my own people!" said Denethor. It was almost a snarl and suddenly, they saw something in the old steward's eyes that had not been there for a long time. It was the fire of a fierce and protective love for his country and his people, surpassing even his desire for familial success and power.

"I thought not," Gandalf murmured so softly that only those closest to him could hear it.

* * *

Logan's head was reeling. Out of all the people in the world —apart from the telepaths, and there seemed to be quite a few of them— Scott had a piece of his past. At first, he didn't know if it was a joke or not. It seemed too ridiculous. But it all made sense. Scott's powers were highly covetable, if one was into such things as destroying the world, and it was only logical that he be included in an experiment on mutants to create a powerful mutant hybrid creature thing. "I heard your roar," Scott had said, "and I can't really tell you how glad I felt, how relieved." Who would have thought that the Wolverine's roar would be considered comforting?

As Scott talked, albeit in a very mathematical, logical and un-colourful manner, blurry images floated to the fore of Logan's thoughts and gradually became more distinct. Yes, he remembered being surrounded by cages, as if he was in a zoo full of exotic animals. There had been a dark haired woman there—Kayla— and so many kids. Mutant kids. He had led them through the dark cold tunnels lit only with eerie fluorescent lights. "And then I met this thing with swords incorporated into his body..." whispered Logan. "They were huge—how the hell did he bend his arms when the swords were hidden?"

"I don't know," said Scott. "I only heard what was going on. They'd blindfolded me with something special, and I couldn't blast through it."

"Right, but you managed to lead them out to safety," said Logan with a snort.

"I told you. The Professor was guiding me," said Scott. "Emma Frost was the one who told me who you were, or else I would never have known, because the Professor certainly wouldn't have said much to me about it."

"Emma Frost?" said Logan. That name sounded strangely familiar, but he wasn't sure where he'd heard it before. Wait...she had something to do with Kayla. Kayla...Silverfox.

He heard his own voice and felt the acute sense of betrayal, but why? Damn it! Why did nobody ever tell him anything? Victor had taken his secrets to the grave, as had the Professor. Galadriel knew, but she was far away in Lothlorien. Logan needed to know now. All his life, he had reserved his greatest hatred for traitors and liars, although he had never known why he hated them more than all the other evils in the world.

"Maybe I should never have said anything," said Scott. He was beginning to sound highly uncomfortable.

"It's a little too late for that," said Logan. His voice was low, and yet it was perfectly audible. He was trying his best not to growl. "Spill it. Who was Emma Frost?"

"She said that her sister knew you. She didn't say more, and I didn't pry. We went our separate ways after we escaped from that place."

"Her sister must have been Kayla," whispered Logan to himself. This was just getting even more confusing...oh, he needed his friends. They always seemed to know how to put his memories back into a logical sequence. For a moment, he wondered why he couldn't, but then he decided that it would only make his head ache. Psychology wasn't exactly a strong point of his. But then, they were all probably too busy dealing with more important things to help him with sorting out his past. After all, there was a war to be won and the fate of a world hung in the balance. Compared to that, his problems were nothing.

"Logan?" said Scott. "Are you...?" He let the unfinished question hang in the air. Some things didn't need to be spoken out loud.

"I'm fine," said Logan. "Just thinkin'. I mean, I feel as if I've been betrayed, but I don't know by whom or for what reason—hey, you're a relatively smart guy. Care to help out? Wait, don't answer it. You've probably got your own business to deal with, since you have a fiancée and all, and I should probably get back to work. Don't wanna take up extra space and air, y'know."

"You've changed, Logan," said Scott. "Becoming soft in your old age, perhaps?"

"Shut up," said the Wolverine. "The age joke gets kinda boring, an' I get enough of it with the others. Besides, it's hard not to change when you've been hurled headlong into a place as strange as this. I'm adaptable. That's why I survive."

"And I'm sure that your healing abilities have nothing to do with it," said Scott. If he hadn't been blindfolded, Logan was sure that he would have rolled his eyes. Well, with that tone, there had to be an accompanying eyeroll.

"You wanna come with me for a bit of a walk?" said the Wolverine in a moment of unusual generosity. He didn't particularly enjoy Scott's company, but it didn't seem right to leave an old acquaintance like him sitting all on his own. "I'm gonna find some other friends of mine coz I ain't seen much of them after the battle. You don't have to come if you don't want to, of course. I'm just offerin'."

"I'd like that," said Scott. "Anyone who can befriend you is surely interesting enough to warrant a meeting."

"Nah, they just don't have sticks up their arses," said Logan. He took Scott by the arm and steered him between the rows of beds. It was extremely awkward, as neither of them was particularly small, and there really wasn't much room in the Houses of Healing. Even worse, Logan didn't know where they had put Merry. Fortunately, everyone seemed to know who Logan was talking about and after having been given several sets of instructions, he finally found him, and Pippin too. The older hobbit was sitting up in a narrow cot, still wearing his armour. His belongings had been set out at the end of the cot. Pippin sat beside him on the bed, and the two seemed to be arguing, although the level of background noise meant that Logan couldn't make out what they were saying. The argument ended quite abruptly when the two of them caught sight of Logan heading their way.

"Hullo, Logan!" said Merry. His voice was forcefully bright. "It was about time. Pippin and I were just talking about you—and you've brought Scott, I see. Pippin has been telling me all about your spectacular deeds on the wall during the siege." The hobbit was trying to hide it, but even an amateur could tell that he was not doing very well. Someone had put his arm in a sling, but that was like telling Logan about the health hazards of smoking; completely ineffectual. The hobbit's face was ashen.

"It is an honour to finally meet you, Master Meriadoc," said Scott politely as Logan guided him over to a seat. No, it would be completely immature to let him fall to the ground on his butt, and far beneath the Wolverine to do such a thing.

"And I, you," said Merry.

"How's the arm?" asked Logan. He sat down on a low stool next to the bed.

"I can't feel it," said Merry. He forced a smile. "But it's just the same. I'm fine, really. Stop shaking your head, Pippin."

"What did the doc—healers say?" said Logan.

"They don't know what to do," admitted the Brandybuck. "But I'm sure I'll be right in no time. We Brandybucks bounce back like nothing else can. Well, except you."

"I'm sure you can," said Logan, giving the hobbit a small smile. He would track down one of those healers and demand the truth later. Right now, this was a reunion of sorts. "And what about you, you Tookish ruffian?"

"I'm fine, as you can tell," said Pippin. "Unlike someone else in our company."

"I don't know who you're talking about," said Merry. "Has anyone heard anything about Lady Éowyn? I am right worried. She didn't look too good when I last saw her."

"I could go find someone who knows something about her condition," Logan offered. He was worried about her too. After all, she'd suffered even worse injuries than Merry. If his experiences with the Nazgûl had taught him anything, it was that this whole Black Breath business was serious.

"Please do," said Merry.

* * *

It didn't take very much asking for Logan to find out about Éowyn. Apparently, she was in a very bad shape, and so was someone whose name Logan recognized as being that of Boromir's brother. Both had fallen into comas, from what he had deduced from the healers' overly fancy language, and someone said something about the hands of a king being the only thing that could save them. Well, there was only one surviving king at the moment, even though he technically wasn't a king yet.

There was nothing for it. He would have to charge up to the seventh level in the usual Wolverine manner and drag Aragorn down here to the Houses of Healing. He didn't care if he had to interrupt some big important meeting or a parliament session. There were lives that needed saving.

* * *

Rage, despair, bitterness, pride, humiliation—all these feelings raged inside him until he wasn't even sure what he was feeling. He tried to focus on the situation at hand. He had to be rational; he had to be calm. It was so difficult when the man who had come to usurp his power was standing directly opposite him, with his head bowed over a large detailed map whilst Boromir explained certain details to him. Denethor found his thoughts wandering as he regarded his son. Boromir had grown, perhaps not in wisdom, but certainly in something else. He could not say that he did not like the change, as a father, for he was glad to see that his son had hope, even though he himself did not. A parent could never enjoy seeing his child being weighed down by so many burdens, and even after all these years, Boromir was still a child in his eyes. Well, in some aspects. That was what it meant to be a father.

However, as a Steward, he could hardly approve of his most trusted Captain, the man who had been his right hand, more or less defecting to his opponent's side. At least, that was what it looked like from where he was standing. That was betrayal, and it left a bad taste at the back of his throat. Yes, he had said that he would accept and support Boromir's decision to support the king, but saying and doing were two very different things. Now that the 'king' was here, it was all he could do to stop himself from being outright hostile.

'For Gondor,' he repeated to himself silently over and over again, hoping that it would calm him down so that he could actually be of use to the war council. Everything they did now, they did for Gondor. For the people. For _his_ people. They were still bound to him, simply because he was a son of Gondor, and for a time, he had considered himself a father not only to Boromir and Faramir, but also to everyone who had sworn fealty to this kingdom. Just because there was now an heir to the throne did not change that fact.

Captain Thorongil was Isildur's Heir. It seemed like an awful jest to Denethor, who could hardly imagine the scruffy, dirt-covered ranger as king, yet no one else seemed to agree with him. He supposed that Thorongil had done much for Gondor when he had served Ecthelion as a captain of the rangers, but how was that more significant than Denethor's own contribution? He kept on reminding himself of his promise to his sons and how _they_ believed that this ranger from the north could truly turn the tides. He could not put his personal ambitions before the survival of his country. He could not. He could not... "Our main concern is that we do not know when Sauron will strike, or how hard he will strike," Aragorn was now saying. "What is more, there is no way to find out. To defeat one's enemy, we must know our enemy, and we do not know anything. All hope now lies with the Ringbearer..." his voice trailed off. "It is all so uncertain—"

The doors burst open and the wildest.._.creature_ Denethor had ever seen burst into the hall. No, not a creature, but a man, although certainly not a civilized one. The guards followed him, panting heavily as if they had been chasing him for a while. "We tried to stop him, milords," said one of the guards nervously.

"Yeah, and if anythin' happened to those people while you were wastin' my time, I'll make you pay for it," snarled the wild man.

"What is it, Logan?" asked Aragorn. "Is something wrong?"

"You think I would have rushed all the way up here if there wasn't?" said the man called Logan. "Éowyn and Boromir's brother are gonna be goners if you don't come with me right now!"

At the mention of Faramir, Denethor's heart almost stopped. He hadn't exactly understood what the strange man had said about 'goners', but whatever it was, it sounded dire. Before anyone else could react, he was out of the door.

* * *

**A/N: **I hope you enjoyed this chapter. The Aragorn-Denethor conflict is so difficult to write, especially Denethor's point of view. I hope I didn't bungle it too badly.


	50. The Eye of the Storm

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything that you recognize. It all belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien, New Line Cinema, Marvel and 20****th**** Century Fox. **

**Valin: **I hope I didn't make you wait too long. ;)

**Miss: **I was wondering if anyone noticed that line. ;) Glad to know that you appreciated it.

**Party Pony: **The Denethor/Aragorn thing is hard. They're both complex men and I'm always a little scared that I don't do them justice.

_Thank you to all my reviewers!_

**Chapter 50: The Eye of the Storm**

With each passing moment, Boromir became more and more frustrated. He alternated between sitting by his brother's bedside with his father and going off to pester the healers about what could be done. Of course, the rational side of him knew that he was being less than helpful, but he couldn't help it. That was his _brother_ lying there on the verge of death. Faramir's brow was burning with fever, but his body was wracked with shivers. All he and Denethor could do was wipe the sweat from his brow and wet his cracked lips as they watched him slowly succumb to the poison in his body.

Nearby, Aragorn was speaking in hushed urgent tones with the herbmaster, who, after giving a long explanation about the properties of the kingsfoil plant, informed them regretfully that there was none to be found. Boromir swallowed the urge to throttle someone. He could not give up. No, his brother was too young to die! He felt as if he had failed Faramir. After all, being the older brother, he should have been there to protect him.

They had all gathered in the Houses of Healing, all political rivalry and personal ambition forgotten. Their main concern was the welfare of their wounded friends. Apparently, the Lady Éowyn and Merry had been struck down by similar afflictions, and if help could not be found soon, they would be losing many who were dear to them.

"My poor son," Denethor was saying as he put his hand upon Faramir's brow. The fever showed no signs of abating. "Is there no hope for you then?"

* * *

Logan stared at the many white fluted columns which loomed all around him. He had been chased out into the courtyard of the Houses of Healing by irritable and overworked healers because his fretting had been obstructing their work. Could they blame him? Both Merry and Éowyn seemed to be succumbing to whatever dark magic the black rider had had, and he could not help but feel as if he was responsible for their circumstances. After all, he'd been the one who'd encouraged them to do what they wanted. If he'd told them that they couldn't come, then maybe they wouldn't have followed the riders, and if they hadn't followed the riders, they wouldn't have gotten hurt.

He paced back and forth before the doors which led into the ward where Merry was. Why shouldn't he be allowed in anyway? Pippin was in there, and he had been fretting even more. Right, so he took up quite a bit more space than the hobbit did, but that wasn't his fault.

Maybe it was time for him to take a nice calm walk and cool down a bit. All his adrenaline and impatience wasn't going to help Merry. The only thing he could do was to give the experts some space so that they might find a way to cure the poor brave hobbit. He wandered over the large but grey garden. There was a complete lack of greenery here. The trees were bare, and there were only a few sparse bushes and some cacti. He hadn't thought that Gondor would have the right climate for cacti.

"I believe they are from the lands far to the east," said someone from behind him. It startled Logan, causing him to pop his claws. People walking through the ambulatories stopped and stared at the gore covered clawed man, and Logan realized too late that it had been a bad idea. This was the equivalent of a hospital, and clawed creatures were never allowed inside hospitals. He turned and glared at the person who had managed to startle him.

"Don't you elves make any noise?" he asked.

"Forgive me if I am not as cumbersome as you _edain_," said Legolas drily. "Next time, I shall remember to announce my entrance."

Logan retracted his claws. His temper was on an edge. He was tired, worried —he'd even lost his appetite. He hadn't meant to be so snappy. "I'm sorry," he said. "It's just that I...y'know what I mean, right?"

"I suppose I do," said the elf with a sigh as he turned his eyes towards the doorway. "I wish there was something I could do. Alas, herblore was one of those lessons I never paid much attention to. I liked plants, but I preferred to listen to them and watch them grow instead of grinding them up to make salves and potions."

"Where's Gimli?" asked the Wolverine, looking around for the dwarf. Usually, he and Legolas were inseparable.

"He went to survey the damage done to the walls," replied the elf. "Alas, there is little I can do at the moment, and thus, I find myself here, awaiting news from our friends."

Logan kicked at a pebble in his way. If they had been in his world, then no doubt their superior medical technology would have been able to deal with whatever it was that was plaguing Merry, Éowyn, and Boromir's brother. He tried not to think about it in that light. 'If only' were the saddest two words in any language —even if they might happen to be three or four words in some languages other than English— and to harbour such thoughts was completely useless. Rather, he ought to think of what he could do right now to help. At least, that was what he often told his students when they lamented bad grades and failed assignments. Come to think of it, he was quite a wise teacher, as far as impatient mutants went. The only problem was that he wasn't so good at learning his own lessons.

The two friends strolled aimlessly through the gardens in silence. They passed several wards, each filled with the wounded and the dying. Some beds had even been set up along the ambulatories for those who were not as badly hurt, relatively speaking. There were that many patients. They passed by some rooms which were set further apart from the common wards. There, through a window, Logan spotted Boromir and his father bending over a prone figure on a bed, their faces drawn with worry. Denethor was holding the unconscious man's hand, whilst Boromir stood there like some guardian angel.

At the sight of this, Logan looked away. Not only did he feel as if he was intruding on an intensely private moment, seeing Boromir guarding his younger brother like that triggered something inside the Wolverine. An old memory was resurfacing. He and Victor had watched over one another like that at one point in time. The memory was vague. Logan couldn't even tell what war it had been, but regret was fresh. What had happened between them to tear them apart like that? He envied Boromir and his brother, for that was a bond which could never be broken. At least, Logan thought it couldn't.

There really wasn't much to the garden, at least as far as Logan was concerned; he'd expected a garden in a world where dragons and undead things roamed to have at least a few snapping plants, but there was nothing of that sort here. Then again, these were the gardens of the Houses of Healing, and giant Venus Flytraps did not seem to be the type of thing that would contribute to a restful atmosphere. Still, something more interesting than rocks and a few ordinary plants wouldn't have hurt. Hospital stays were boring, or so he'd heard. Personally, he'd never stayed in a hospital for very long before.

After what seemed like several hours, Aragorn finally came out into the gardens. His face was troubled, and he seemed to look older than Logan remembered him to be. Well, older was a relative term. The man was eighty seven, after all. By normal human standards, that was almost ancient, and he still didn't look as if he was anywhere near that age.

"How are they?" asked Legolas as soon as they were within speaking distance, which meant that they would not have to shout to be heard. Shouting was probably prohibited in this place, unless one was a healer or a patient.

"They gonna be okay?" said Logan at exactly the same time.

Aragorn shook his head. "I need the _athelas_ plant if I am to cure them," he said, "but there is none to be found in the stores."

"What do you mean?" asked Logan. "There has to be some in a city of this size!"

"Quieter, please," said Aragorn. "There are men who need rest here. The healers and the herbmaster cannot locate any within the Houses of Healing, and I fear that it would not be so easy to find some inside Minas Tirith when most people are trying to gather the pieces of their shattered lives. _Athelas _is rare, and it is not in season right now."

"In season or not, we have to find it," insisted Logan. At last! Here was something he could do. "It was what you used on Frodo after Weathertop, right? That Royal Foil plant?"

"It's kingsfoil, not 'Royal Foil'," said Aragorn with a tired smile. "I am impressed that you remembered it."

"I remembered the foil part, and the smell," said Logan. "Look, Legolas and me, we're pretty much useless here anyway, and this is our only hope."

"He is right, Aragorn," said Legolas. "If you announce to the people of Minas Tirith just how much we need that plant, with all these eyes and noses helping us, I am certain that we would be able to locate some. And Logan here, I believe, has a very keen sense of smell, as do I."

"I hope you will not frighten some poor apothecary half to death just to obtain the herb," said the king-to-be. That comment was aimed mostly at the Wolverine, and they all knew it.

"I'm a good negotiator," said Logan. "I thought I'd proved that with Bill Ferny."

* * *

As he went from door to door, sniffing and asking, Logan began to realize just how immense Minas Tirith was. There seemed to be miles upon miles of streets and alleyways. In fact, it reminded him of New York City, Middle Earth style. There were people all over the streets, knocking on doors and sometimes even just sifting through the rubble of ruined apothecary shops, searching for the elusive herb.

While Boromir had not joined in the search due to the fact he felt that he needed to stay where his men could easily locate him, he had sent as many of his people as he could possibly spare to pass the message onto the rest of the city. Children, women, and even old veterans had joined in the hunt for this miracle plant.

Rubble littered the streets, and there were char marks on the stones and more than just traces of soot. Men were working on clearing away the rubble and the bodies of the orcs, piling them high in carts and then taking them away to the lowest level of the city, where great pyres were waiting. Dark smoke rose as the foul bodies were consumed by cleansing flames. Great columns of smoke rose into the sky, adding to the hazy veil over the city. At least the dark cloud from Mordor seemed to have dissipated a little. Otherwise, it would look like something out of an apocalyptic movie. Then again, such a sight would not have been out of place. As far as Logan knew, Middle Earth was facing what was essentially their apocalypse, and all their hopes of averting it lay with one —no— two little hobbits.

And as far as the hope of finding this royal foil stuff went, it was fading quickly. He was pretty sure that they'd combed through most of the city, and yet no one had sounded the horn which would signal that they'd found some. Time was running out.

Then Logan heard the distant but excited shout of a very young boy who could not have been older than nine. He came running towards the men, holding a tiny cloth-wrapped bundle with both hands as if it was as delicate as some precious artefact that was worth all the gold and jewels in the world. "I've found it!" shouted the boy. No, it was worth _more_ than all the gold and jewels in the world. This held the key to the survival of three very important people.

* * *

Boromir heard the clamour and the excitement outside, and as much as he wanted to stay by his brother's side, he knew he ought to go and see what was happening. Usually, the healers would not allow that much noise. He ought to know, having been a resident of the Houses of Healing numerous times in the past. He moved past the rows of cots, taking care not to disturb the wounded men. A few of them were awake, and they saluted him, actions which he reciprocated. They had shed blood for Gondor, no, for all of Middle Earth, and they deserved his respect.

A small group of healers had gathered around a child who, surprisingly, was conversing with Aragorn and holding out a piece of cloth to the future king. And on that piece of plain linen were six tiny dried leaves. At first, Boromir was confused, for those leaves seemed so insignificant, but then he remembered. This was probably the only _athelas_ in the entire city! It was a miracle that anyone even found them. Perhaps the Valar, or Eru, or whoever was up there did care after all.

Aragorn took the six desiccated leaves reverently with both hands, murmuring his thanks to the boy, who beamed up at him. The epitome of innocence unmarred by darkness. Boromir prayed that the child would be able to stay that way instead of having to grow up to become a jaded warrior too soon, like so many others.

* * *

He walked in a vale of darkness. It was cold, so cold. He was utterly alone in this desolate place. There was no end to it. From the inky emptiness surrounding him, he heard indistinguishable voices whispering. He called out, but he seemed to have lost his voice, and it came out only as a faint plea. No one answered him. Despair gripped his heart, and then, he felt a hand brush tenderly across his forehead. Someone was calling his name, commanding him to return. There was warmth, and he smelled the refreshing scent of wet earth and dewy grass, as well as a hint of mint. _Athelas_. It had to be. That was what it always smelled like, at least to him. Light appeared before him. At first, it was faint but it grew brighter and brighter. He strode towards that light, determined not to be trapped in darkness any longer.

Faramir became aware of something else rather less pleasant as he neared the light. There was more pain with each step he took. Initially, it seemed as if his whole body was hurting, but afterwards, it became more focused on his shoulder. The voices surrounding him grew louder and more distinct. He opened his eyes.

His vision swam. Colours blurred and became one mess of swirling hues. They gradually settled, and he found himself looking up into the concerned faces of his father and brother. "Welcome back, brother," said Boromir as a relieved grin spread across his face. Faramir wanted to make fun of him —his brother looked an absolute mess, not that he himself looked any better— but he found that he didn't even have the strength to summon his voice. He tried to lift his head. That turned out to be a bad idea as the room began to revolve, or so it seemed.

"Lie still, my son," came his father's voice, and he felt a gentle but insistent hand pushing him back down onto the bed and pulling the blankets up a little higher. It took him a while to realize that his father was tucking him in as if he was a small child in need of coddling. Truth be told, he rather enjoyed it. It had been a while since Denethor had shown him such affection or, indeed, so much attention. "We feared the worst, but you have some strength, and some pure dumb luck."

Faramir finally worked up enough moisture in his mouth. He would have asked about the battle, but then he realized that with a parched throat like his, he wouldn't be able to utter much more than just one word. So he chose wisely. "Water," he whispered. Boromir supported his head and helped him to sit up so that he might be able to drink better. His father put the cup to his lips. Cool sweet water flooded into his mouth, washing away the stale taste of battle. He gulped down mouthfuls so quickly that he almost choked a couple of times.

"That should be enough for now," he heard a voice say. "Too much will make him ill." That was the voice calling to him in his dreams. He turned to look at the stranger who was sitting at his bedside. Up until now, he had been rather quiet. Faramir had never seen him before, but in his heart, he knew who he was. The hands of a king were the hands of a healer. Only the king could have been able to use _athelas_ to such great effect. He could hardly believe that this was real. Yes, Boromir had spoken to him of the Heir of Isildur, but nothing could have prepared him for this moment when he realized that the king was truly here to reclaim what belonged to his line. He glanced at his father. Denethor had never kept his disdain for Isildur's line a secret, and yet the Steward was not reacting in a particularly aversive manner to the presence of the man who had come to take over the rule of Gondor. Was the storm averted, or merely delayed?

* * *

A sense of apprehension settled over the city. Mordor was not finished yet and they all knew it. Even the Wolverine, as insensitive as he thought he was, could feel the nervousness emanating from everyone he met. He put it down to their unsubtle body language. People always kept on glancing east towards the dark clouds that covered the skies above Mordor. The only light in that place came from unnatural fires which cast a sickly orange glow onto the clouds. He couldn't exactly blame them for being jumpy. The sight of Mordor made his hackles rise, and he felt the inexplicable urge to get away from it even though he had no idea what lay behind those high rock walls.

He spent most of his time exploring the city. Now that there was a lull in the fighting, he had to find some other ways to occupy himself. Logan wasn't the type who enjoyed having nothing to do. He didn't know about medieval warfare to take part in the war councils which were constantly in session. Everyone else he knew seemed to be there, barring the hobbits and those who were still recovering and should not worry themselves with such stressful matters.

Therefore, he spent much time in the Houses of Healing, usually just talking with Merry and Pippin. They had the most in common, after all, out of everyone else who was there. This day, it happened that Legolas and Gimli were there too when Logan arrived. The two of them had an enraptured audience of two hobbits who seemed to be hanging onto their every word. For once, Gimli was not doing much talking. Rather, he was sitting there on the stone bench beside Legolas and looking grim, as if he was remembering something very unpleasant.

This made Logan all the more curious and he quickened his pace —not so easy to accomplish when one had a metal skeleton and needed to try and keep his footsteps as light as possible so that he wouldn't disturb the resting patients. Soon enough, he was able to hear Legolas' words clearly. The elf was speaking of what had transpired after Aragorn's company had reached the Paths of the Dead.

All of a sudden, Legolas stopped in his narrative and then turned to look in Logan's direction. "I see that my tale has attracted someone else," said the elf. "Come, Logan. There is no need to be shy. It does not become you."

"I'm not shy!" said Logan. "I just didn't want to interrupt the story!"

"Then I shall take that as a compliment to my skills as a storyteller, for you have no aversion to interrupting most conversations," said Legolas with a grin. The elf beckoned to Logan and invited him to sit with them. "You have not missed much, for that was just a very concise version of what happened."

"You call that concise, lad?" said Gimli. "I, for one, would not mind if you did not speak of that episode at all!"

"Our friend Gimli did not enjoy our journey very much, I'm afraid," said Legolas with a grin. Logan recognized that look in his eyes. This was going to be interesting. "You see, my friends, the Paths of the Dead lay deep under the mountains. However, when we reached the entrance, Gimli suddenly decided that—" Gimli's stopped him in midsentence with a glare, not that Legolas was intimidated at all. "You should not be ashamed, my friend. Many brave men quailed at the sight of those doors and that dark gaping maw. I had no fear because we elves see no reason to fear the dead."

"I'm not scared of the dead," grumbled Gimli. Beneath his beard, his face was growing redder by the minute. "I'm just not comfortable with the living dead. There is a difference."

"You're not the only one, bub," said Logan sympathetically. "I don't like all this paranormal stuff either. Dead things should stay dead, not come back as the undead." Well, he wasn't really that afraid of the undead or the dead, but Gimli seemed to be in need of consoling, and Legolas definitely wasn't helping.

"I wouldn't have wanted to see the Paths of the Dead," said Pippin. "I think you were all very brave to go through them at all."

"Besides, fear is not a bad thing," said Merry sagely. "Fear can save your life. I mean, if you didn't feel fear, you wouldn't run from things like Balrogs and trolls." Logan grinned. Trust Merry to remind them all of what Legolas _did_ fear. Sometimes, it was hard to remember that the elf had weaknesses.

"Indeed, it can be a very good thing at the right time," said the elf with a smile. "But, let me continue with our tale, for it is not finished yet." What followed next was a story that belonged in Hollywood blockbusters. Hell, if Legolas had lived in the right world where films had been invented, he would have made millions if he'd written that tale as a screenplay. He could have starred in it too. Those film moguls would have loved to have a leading man who oozed this much charm and charisma.

* * *

Boromir carefully helped his brother onto one of the stone benches. Faramir wasn't supposed to get out of bed but he knew from experience that men healed faster when they were not cooped up behind walls like captives. Therefore, he had no qualms about disobeying the healers' orders. At any rate, Aragorn hadn't said anything about Faramir staying in bed and surely the Heir of Isildur knew best about such matters. He had been raised and taught by Elrond of Rivendell, after all.

"I feel as if we are small boys again, and that there will be so much trouble should anyone find out that you helped me to escape, especially Father," said Faramir with a grin as Boromir sat down beside him.

"Let us pray that he will not," said Boromir. "Besides, he should know better than to keep either of us indoors. He could not do it then, and I doubt he would be able to do it now."

"Perhaps not, but he can still give us very sore ears," said Faramir. Boromir laughed. His brother had his humour back. That was a very good sign. Well, it wasn't as if Faramir had ever lost his sense of humour, but a few days ago, he hadn't had enough strength to show it off. Even if this hadn't been much of a joke, he was still glad that Faramir had had the energy to make it. It was a relief to be able to sit here and speak of things other than military matters. He needed to let his mind rest, and Faramir knew it, for he mentioned nothing of the war, although he must have been very interested in what was going on.

And there was a lot going on. For one, the tension between his father and Aragorn was still there, although it was considerably muted now that they had a common goal and Aragorn had saved Faramir's life. Still, the old Steward resented the fact that he was about to be replaced. He could not help it. That was just his nature. Denethor was a proud man. Too proud, some would say.

"Do you remember the time I broke my leg when I fell off my horse?" asked Boromir. He needed to think of something more lighthearted, and that was the first thing that came to mind.

"How can I not?" said Faramir. "I was seven, you were twelve, and it was the first time you were riding a 'proper' horse instead of a pony. I think I sneaked you out of your room against the healers' advice, if I remember correctly."

"You are correct, little brother. I do not think that time has cured us of the need to be in open spaces. And as soon as my splints were removed, I got back on that horse again," said Boromir, smiling as he remembered that day. The animal had been a feisty liver chestnut stallion, just three years old. It had probably not been the best horse for a twelve year old boy and the stable master had said as much when Boromir had chosen it, but he had been adamant and his father had been in a rather indulgent mood that day. Someone rudely interrupted his little foray into the past.

"You were excited about gettin' a _horse_?"

Both brothers turned to look at the owner of that voice. "Sorry, sorry," said Logan sheepishly. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised. It's kinda like gettin' your first car, right?"

"I suppose," said Boromir with a grin. "Except horses have legs and, from what I have heard about your 'cars', horses seem to be safer."

"Yeah, right. Whatever," said Logan. "Cars are so much faster and less temperamental than horses. So, you gonna introduce us?"

"Forgive me," said Boromir. "I had forgotten that you have not been formally introduced."

"I do not see how formal this can be, brother, seeing as I seem to be wearing more bandages than clothes," said Faramir. "At least, that is what it feels like."

"And I'm here," said Logan. "I kinda ruin most formalities, as I've found. So you're Boromir's brother." It was more of a statement. Boromir supposed that it was not so hard to guess. The family resemblance between him and Faramir were unmistakeable. The Wolverine held out a hand to Faramir.

"And I take it that you are the famous Logan of the Six Claws," said Denethor's younger son. He took the proffered hand, but he didn't seem to know what to do next.

"Shake it," said Boromir. "That is the custom, I believe?"

"Yeah," said Logan with a grin. "Or you could bump fists, if you're into that kind of thing. Or you'd grunt if you're not in the mood to be polite, and maybe even just stab or shoot the other guy if you've got a bad feeling about 'im."

"Charming," said Boromir drily. "The more I hear about your world and its customs, the less convinced I am that there are civilizations there."

"The circles I move in? They ain't very civilized," said Logan. "'Cept for the people at the school, of course. Otherwise, they all follow the law o' the jungle, y'know? Kill, or be killed."

"Then I am very glad that you did not shoot or stab me," said Faramir solemnly, although the mirth in his voice was barely concealed. "I know you are more than capable of doing that." Boromir quickly turned his snort into a cough as he recalled his first meeting with Logan. Faramir had no idea how honoured he was.

"I don't shoot or stab friends or friends of friends, unlike some people, although I really shouldn't talk about the dead like that," said Logan. "So, Logan of the Six Claws, huh? Why can't people in my world come up with names like that?"

* * *

A shaft of soft pale sunlight shone through the window and onto the stone floor just a couple of feet away from her bed. She couldn't see much from her vantage point on the bed. The healers had said that she was on the mend although they also told her that she ought to stay abed just for a couple more days before attempting to venture outside. This advice did not sit well with her. She had been in this room for more than long enough, as far as she was concerned. She'd memorized almost all the details about it, from the details of the tapestry which hung right next to the window to the pattern and the grain of the slabs of stone which covered the floor.

Éowyn was not a woman who enjoyed being trapped by walls, no matter how good the intentions were. She could hear the soft wind outside and a few notes of birdsong as well as the voices of men. The only person who came to visit her regularly was her brother, and his visits had grown briefer of late. Not that she blamed him; there was much to be done, and he was the king of Rohan now. Responsibilities that had once belonged to her uncle now fell upon his shoulders. Still, she craved the company of people. She glanced at the doorway. There was no one there. Surely it would do no harm for her to step outside just for a moment to enjoy the breezes and the sunlight?

Her borrowed robe was draped on the chair beside her bed. She reached for it. It would have to do for now, for there was no one to help her change into more appropriate garments and she didn't want to call for someone to help her to lace up a dress. Besides, it was not as if she was showing anything improper. She tried to slip her arms into the sleeves. However, that proved to be too difficult since one arm was splinted and the other was still feeling weak. Instead, she threw the thick woollen robe about her shoulders and did up the front ties so that it draped like a cloak. There seemed to be a lack of shoes, and she suspected a conspiracy to keep her in bed. No matter.

The stone floor was smooth and cold beneath her bare feet. For a moment, she felt a little dizzy, but the feeling soon left. She looked around in all directions, careful to avoid detection. They would only make her go back to bed if they found her, even if it wasn't what she needed. This daughter of Rohan needed to see wide open skies again, even if she couldn't have endless green plains.

At first, the sunlight seemed awfully bright to her eyes even though there wasn't very much of it. She blinked a couple of times until her vision adjusted after having spent so long in a rather dim room. _That_ light level was good for sleeping, but one could only sleep so much. There were only a few people out in the gardens and, fortunately for her, none of them were healers. Supposedly they were much too busy tending to the wounded to take strolls. She spotted three men sitting on a stone bench. They were laughing — a rare sound these days. She stiffened as she recognized Lord Boromir and Logan. While she might be able to slip past the other two unnoticed, she doubted she could escape the Wolverine's attention. As it was, he was already turning in her direction.

He grinned when he saw her. The other two noticed. Lord Boromir was on his feet in an instant. He bowed to her as etiquette dictated, and she hurriedly dropped a curtsey. The younger man with them was a little slow to rise, but he also bowed, albeit stiffly, probably due to his injury. She might not have been told of his identity, but she guessed that he was Lord Boromir's younger brother. Had he not been shot with an arrow with poison on its tip?

"It's great to see you up," said Logan, going over to her to lead her to the stone bench. "You feelin' all right?"

"Better than I did, thank you, Master Logan," she said. All of a sudden, she felt very aware of how inappropriately dressed she was for such an occasion. A lady should not be seen in such a state. It was unbecoming, especially for a daughter of a royal house.

"I'm glad to hear it," said Logan. "Here, sit down before someone catches you and realizes you're not supposed to be out. Trust me, sneaking around like that only makes you all the more noticeable." While she didn't want to admit it, it was a relief to sit down. Walking that short distance had taken more energy than she had thought it would. Maybe the healers were right. She shouldn't be on her feet just yet.

"I take it that you are not one to remain abed for long, milady," said Lord Boromir once he and Logan had seen to it that she was comfortable and warm enough.

"No, it does not suit me," said Éowyn, "not that I do not appreciate your excellent hospitality here, milord. I merely wished to see the open sky."

"Consider our hospitality repayment for yours whilst we were in Rohan, milady," said Boromir, inclining his head briefly before turning to the younger man sitting next to him. "I believe you have not met my brother." Ah, so she had been right. That _was_ Denethor's youngest son. He seemed to be regarding her with much interest, although his gaze did not make her feel uneasy. He was pleasant to look upon, with dark hair and a noble mien, much like his brother. If her mind had not been consumed by thoughts of another man, she might have even been flattered by his interest.

* * *

**A/N: **I know I haven't talked much about what's going on between Denethor and Aragorn at the moment, but this is not the end of their conflict. In actual fact, I don't even know if that conflict will ever be completely resolved. I hope you enjoyed the chapter anyway.


	51. The Beginning of the End

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything.**

**Partypony: **Scott wouldn't let him hear the end of it! XD Thanks for the support!

**Miss: **Logan's a great character. I'm really grateful to have been able to work with him.

**Chapter 51: The Beginning of the End **

His brother had said she was fair to gaze upon, but that had been an understatement. Faramir did not know what had overcome him. There were many women in Gondor, some of whom were called beautiful and who would have given anything to become his bride but none had moved his heart as this proud golden maiden from Rohan had done upon their first meeting. Perhaps it was her pride, the dignified way in which she held herself, and the sorrow hidden behind her eyes. And unlike most of the other women he had interacted with, she fawned over neither him nor his brother. That alone made her stand out from all the Gondorian ladies who had tried to attach themselves to him in the past. Éowyn of Rohan, Shieldmaiden and slayer of the Witch King of Angmar. Yes, she was definitely different from any other woman he had ever encountered.

He watched her now as she wandered over the paths in the garden of the Houses of Healing. It wasn't hard to tell that there were matters occupying her thoughts. Her brow was furrowed as she surveyed the sparse and drooping plants. How different this must be from her homeland. Faramir wondered if she was not feeling more than just a little homesick. It had to be lonely here for her, knowing so few people and with her brother constantly up in the Citadel discussing military matters with the other commanders. He did not even bother to pretend that he was not watching her and he was quite certain that she knew what he was doing. Either she did not want to speak to him, or she was waiting for him to make the first move, as a nobleman ought. Indeed, he really should if he wanted to speak to her, and he wanted that very much.

"Milady," he said as he approached her. He stopped at a respectable distance and bowed. "It is a delightful surprise that we are both in the gardens at the same time."

She returned his greeting with a curtsey and a slight smile, more polite than anything. "Hardly a surprise, milord," she said. "Neither of us enjoy being trapped by walls."

"You are right, milady," Faramir conceded. "But it is delightful nonetheless. How find you Minas Tirith?" She was not particularly talkative, but he was determined to try and understand her better. Beneath her guarded facade was a woman of great courage and surely great passion. Otherwise, she would not have ridden so far to Minas Tirith in the guise of a man to do battle against the forces of Mordor. Even if they had nothing else in common, they shared the same determination to rid Middle Earth of the Dark Lord's evil forever. He also refused to believe that they had nothing else in common.

"It is a fair city, milord," she said, and then hesitated.

"Whatever you say, you will not offend me, milady," said Faramir. "I love this city, but I cannot deny that it has flaws."

"Then I shall say it," said Éowyn as she pulled her robe tighter about her shoulders. Some of her golden tresses had escaped from the pin that held them back and they flew in the gentle breeze. Sunlight glinted off her hair, making it seem as if she was shining. She was so pale, and her eyes were so haunted. Faramir suddenly felt the inexplicable urge to reach out and touch her face to assure himself that she was real and not just a figment of his imagination. "Being this far south, I had thought that it would be warmer, milord."

"A common misconception, I daresay," said Faramir. "But if you are cold, you should not be out here in the wind."

"It does not bother me as much as being behind walls," said Éowyn, "and your city also has many walls."

"It would not be much of a fortress otherwise," said Faramir.

"That is true. I suppose I am unaccustomed to seeing so much stone. Even Helm's Deep seems quite small compared to this, and that is Rohan's greatest fortress."

"Perhaps the Rohirrim have no need of such great stone cities."

"Perhaps not. My people treasure the freedom of wide open plains, of infinite seas of green grass. You might think it barbaric, milord. No, do not be so alarmed. We might be peasants and herdsmen for the most part, but we are not deaf to outside opinions of our people."

"I would not even think such a thing!" said Faramir indignantly, eliciting a smile from the Shieldmaiden. "I admire your people and envy you your freedom."

"You do not find our lack of convention uncivilized?" asked Éowyn. "I have heard some whisper it during my time in Minas Tirith although I have not ventured outside the Houses of Healing. Your men think it improper that I do not cover my head in the manner of Gondorian women. They think it uncouth."

"Then they are the ignorant ones," muttered Faramir. Who would dare to say such a thing of the maiden who had slain the Witch King, something which no man could have done? If they thought her uncultured then it was simply because they did not understand her courage. He had heard something of her past from Boromir, although his brother had been careful not to share too much since he believed that it was not his right. "I would have you know that not all Gondorian men think that way."

"That I already know, milord," she said. "You and Lord Boromir, for instance, and...Lord Aragorn." Faramir did not miss the way the tone of her voice changed when she said the name of Gondor's future king. Nor did the distant look in her eyes go unnoticed.

* * *

Logan leaned against the wood-panelled wall in the large round room they were using as the war council chamber. Actually, it was the war council chamber, but it looked more like a library to him. In the centre, there was a large round table upon which there was a miniature model of Minas Tirith and the terrain around it. He could even see the forest they had passed through, although the secret mountain path was missing. Tiny coloured flags were used as markers to indicate the positions of troops as the men debated about their situation and what their enemy would do. In Logan's opinion, Sour Ron would not need to do much in the way of tactics if he really wanted to win. He could overwhelm them with sheer force alone.

From his vantage point, as in outside of the discussion, he could more or less see everything that was going on. Actually, he would have been able to 'see' it even if he had been blind. For one, there was unmistakeable hostility in Denethor's voice. Secondly, the scent of sweat was quite strong. Aragorn could try and be calm all he wanted, but he would never be able to fool the Wolverine — not if Logan could smell it.

"Are you trying to fool me even now?" Denethor was saying. Well, spitting was more like it. Logan took this chance to observe Boromir's father. The family resemblance was there, and he was just as blunt as his son —a quality which the Wolverine admired. However, the father was considerably more cynical and embittered than the son, and he certainly made no effort to hide his distaste for wizards and special bloodlines. Logan did not blame him for being bitter and cynical. If he remembered correctly, he'd been like that as well before he'd met Marie and the others and learned that not all human beings were self-serving bastards. Living within spitting distance of Mordor probably had not helped the Steward. "Heir of Isildur or not, there is nothing anyone can do when Sauron decides to unleash his fury against us, and let me tell you that his retribution will be swift. No reforged sword will be able to stop it! what do we have that can give us an advantage over him?"

The men exchanged glances. Well, that was an overstatement. It was more like the members of the Fellowship exchanged glances, and then everyone looked at Gandalf. The wizard was deep in thought and for a moment, did not react. Then he nodded, not at Aragorn, but at Boromir. "There is something we have been keeping from you, Father," said the man. "From all of you. Forgive us, but we thought it best at the time that this remained a secret, but now that we are all in this together, it is only fair that you learn of it."

"What secret?" asked Éomer, leaning forwards ever so slightly. Logan doubted the horselord even noticed that he was doing it.

"We are going to destroy Isildur's Bane."

Chaos erupted. Logan wasn't quite sure what Boromir had said. What was 'Isildur's Bane'? He remembered that Isildur was Aragorn's ancestor from way back —hard to forget when everyone was calling him the Heir of Isildur— but that was about it. Oh...wait. It was the Ring! That was stupid. Why couldn't they just call it the Ring and stop confusing people like him? He looked around. No one else seemed to be confused. Gandalf was trying to calm them down with little success. In fact, his shouting only added to the chaos. It was so easy to forget that these were lords sometimes because, right now at this point in time, they sounded like high school kids.

"You would destroy the only advantage we have?!" Denethor demanded. He whipped around and glared at Gandalf. If looks could kill, then Gandalf would have been turned into ash ages ago. Wait, looks _did_ kill, if one happened to be Scott Summers.

* * *

Boromir understood what his father was thinking. After all, he had known the man for his entire life. One did learn to read certain facial expressions in that amount of time. To Denethor, this was more than just folly; it was madness. He might tolerate Aragorn's rule but to throw away what seemed to be their only advantage against Sauron was another thing entirely and he knew that his father would never support such an idea, especially not when the Ring was being protected by two little hobbits and a sneaky creature called Gollum. He had to admit he was not entirely comfortable with the idea of leaving the fate of Middle Earth in Frodo's hands. He was a soldier and it was simply not in him to sit there and wait for his fate. Rather, he preferred to carve out his future with naked steel.

"The enemy outnumbers us," said the Steward. It wasn't hard to tell that the Steward was trying to keep his voice calm. "He can drown us with numbers alone! And what do we have? Nothing, except a conjurer in white and a ranger with an old sword. We need Isildur's Bane. It will give us leverage over Mordor and then perhaps we might win."

"It did not help Isildur," said Boromir quietly, "and I do not think it will help us. At any rate, the Ring is beyond our reach now."

"So you will simply leave the fate of Middle Earth in the hands of a Halfling?" said Denethor. He slammed his fist onto the table, making the scattered writing implements jump with the impact. A few droplets of ink splattered onto the maps. "What chance is there that he will be able to traipse through Mordor undetected?"

"Very little," said the ranger. He had been rather quiet throughout this entire exchange. In fact, from what Denethor remembered of Thorongil, he had always been a quiet man. Denethor was a suspicious man by nature and he was even more suspicious of those who spoke very little. From his experience, they were the most dangerous of men because they were hard to predict. One could never know what they were thinking even though it was certain that they had much on their minds. They were simply wise enough not to let the world know. "Which is why we cannot simply sit here and wait," he continued, looking at all of them in turn.

"You mean to divert Sauron's attention," said Éomer, understanding suddenly dawning on him.

"I was under the impression that the Dark Lord's attention was most unwelcome," said Imrahil wryly, although he was smiling. Well, at least that was another man who supported the idea, and Boromir knew how much his father respected his uncle. If Imrahil thought that the plan had merit then perhaps Denethor would be more likely to accept it and help them. Perhaps.

"What makes you think that Sauron will fall for the trap?" asked Denethor. "He might be many things, but a fool is not one of them."

"We have to try," said Aragorn firmly. "What else can we do?"

"Well, trying was never good enough, was it?" said Denethor. "Otherwise, we would not be in this situation." His voice became even harder. Boromir could sense that it was difficult for his father. For years he had struggled against the encroaching darkness of Mordor, and to what end? As far as the Steward was concerned, he had failed. Of course, he would never try to comfort his father. To do so would be to show sympathy, and Denethor never wanted any sympathy. He was a proud man.

"If you have something on your mind, Lord Steward, then tell us," said Gandalf.

"You presume much, Mithrandir," said Denethor. "However, this time, you happen to be correct." He stood up straighter and Boromir imagined that he could see the man his father had once been, when his mother had been alive. His heart warmed and he could not help but feel a surge of pride. Even now, his father still commanded the attention and respect of those around him, as can be seen by the way everyone in the room now looked at him. It did not matter that he was amongst kings and princes and wizards. "Who does the Dark Lord fear most?"

"The Heir of Isildur," whispered Gandalf.

* * *

It made absolutely no sense to him at all, although he was hardly surprised by the fact. Hardly anything in Middle Earth made sense to him and he had long given up trying to understand it all. Besides, it wasn't as if they needed him to understand. Still, Logan had to wonder why Saur Ron feared Aragorn most. Wasn't Ron supposed to be a powerful villain who had the ability and the desire to take over the world? If so, then why was he afraid of _Aragorn_ of all people? This was the man —no, giant burning eyeball, not man— who had been able to control Victor. _Victor Creed. _Surely that had to mean something. At any rate, he would have thought that Gandalf would be scarier, being a wizard with superpowers and all.

He wracked his memory to see if he could remember if there was anything particularly special about Aragorn. Yes, he was descended from a bunch of important kings and his ancestor Isildur had chopped of Ron's finger with a broken sword —the very same sword that Aragorn now used. Maybe it was a magic sword? No, it couldn't be. It was still used in the same way as any other sword and it didn't even glow when orcs were near the way Frodo's sword did. Still, it was the only possibility.

"What we must do now is convince Sauron that the Heir of Isildur truly has emerged from obscurity and is ready to challenge him," Gandalf was saying. "If he knows, then he will keep his eye fixed upon us and become blind to everything else." Logan bit back the urge to snort —a most inappropriate response, since this was a serious matter. However, he didn't believe that Aragorn was up to challenging this super villain. The ranger was good, but not that good. Even if he did have magic sword, it probably didn't work better than a machine gun and even a machine gun would not be able to deal with the sheer number of orcs and other nasty beasties the enemy had. Therefore, it all came back to the irrationality of Aragorn being the one person Ron feared most.

"That is not so difficult," said Denethor. It sounded ominous. "Have you never wondered why I knew so much?" He looked at Aragorn as if everyone else in the room had disappeared. "I knew you were coming to take my place, that I would become obsolete. I have seen it."

"You used the seeing stone of Minas Anor," whispered Aragorn. "What drove you to such madness?"

There was stunned silence in the room. A stunned and tense silence as everyone digested the information. In Logan's case, it was trying to link the information with something else that he ought to remember, but couldn't. Seeing stone...seeing stone...hadn't the crystal ball Wormtongue chucked down Orthanc been a seeing stone? It seemed to have pretty adverse effects on anyone who used it, if Pippin's reaction to it was any proof. Maybe that was why Boromir's father had such a bad attitude.

"Is it madness to want to protect my city?" said Denethor.

"Where is the stone now?" asked Gandalf quietly.

* * *

He could not deny that he was nervous. In fact, the only reason he was trying to hide it was because they were all relying on him. He clutched the hilt of his sword tightly, as if trying to draw strength from this artefact left behind by Elendil. Their footsteps echoed in the empty stone hallways. Apparently, no one came to this part of the citadel, and it showed. Cobwebs hung from the brackets on the wall used for holding torches that had not been lit for many years.

Denethor led them to a heavy old wooden door with iron bands across it. The wood was dark with age. From within the folds of his robes, the Steward produced a large key and inserted it into the keyhole without any resistance. Clearly, he had come here very often. The door unlocked with a click and opened without even creaking. The hinges were well oiled, doubtless to ensure no one ever found out about the Steward's visits.

The interior was dim. As Aragorn's eyes adjusted to the lack of light, he could see faded tapestries hanging from the walls. Dust covered furniture cluttered the sides of the room. There were even a few statues, some chipped, others covered with large pieces of white linen to keep the dust off them. The only place with relatively little dust was a stone pedestal in the centre of the room and the floor around it. A piece of dark velvet covered the seeing stone, but simply seeing the shape of the palantir made his heart beat faster in a most unpleasant way. He did not turn, nor did he need to in order to know that everyone was watching him.

"We will be just outside if you need us," said Gandalf. The wizard put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Milord."

* * *

Logan resisted the urge to peek through the keyhole or press his ear up against it. It was awfully quiet inside that room. From that brief explanation given to him by the sons of Elrond, he understood that those seeing stones —pal-in-theory or something rather— were like Middle Earth's version of phones. Unfortunately, there were only seven of them, most had been lost and they were dangerous. Therefore, they could not obtain some and use them instead of pigeons or messengers. Wait, didn't seeing stones let people see? He changed his mind. These were Middle Earth's webcams. Still, shouldn't Aragorn be making _some_ noise?

They waited, and then they waited some more. Finally, the door opened and Aragorn stood there. His eyes gleamed with almost feverish triumph and he was taking in gulps of air as if he'd just been running a marathon. He looked at Gandalf and then nodded once. The wizard seemed to understand, because he bowed to the man, and when he looked up again, he was smiling, although that was the grim smile of a man who knew that the end was coming.

"Everything is now in motion," declared Aragorn. There was a new strength in his voice, something Logan had never heard before. Apparently, he was not the only one who was taken by surprise, judging from the expressions of those around him. Even his foster brothers were regarding him in a new light. For the first time, the Wolverine could believe that this was a king in making. "I must ride for the Black Gates with all due haste."

"You?" Logan could not help his outburst. "Whaddya mean 'you'? Surely you mean 'us'?"

"I am not yet king, my friend, and I cannot claim command over any man," said the ranger. "Although if you are willing to ride with me, if any of you are willing, then I would be most honoured."

"Estel, this is exactly why Elrohir and I have come," said Elladan, stepping forward to stand beside his foster brother. "You did not think we came to Minas Tirith to admire the view, did you?"

"Is there even any doubt that we will ride with you?" said Legolas with a grin.

"You know that there is a chance that we will all fall in this battle and not live to see the dawn of the new age," said the man.

"Be as it may, we have come thus far under your leadership and Gandalf's counsel and I would not abandon our quest now," said Boromir. "Even if no other man will, I shall ride beside you to whatever end."

"While I do not know much about such matters," said Éomer, "you know that I will come if you have need of me. You came to my aid when I needed it. The least I can do is return the favour."

"And as your subject, even though you do not consider yourself king yet, it is my duty to lead my men out into battle alongside my liege," said Imrahil. "Although, with all due respect, milord, are we to leave the city defenceless? I would not come back from a victory on the battlefield only to find Minas Tirith ravaged and ransacked."

"I would not think of it," said Aragorn, "which is why I sent four thousand men marching through Lossarnach from Pelargir two days ago, and they should be here in another two. Moreover, I bid as many men as I could to board every vessel that floats so they might sail up the river to join us. How many men within the city are still capable of fighting?"

"I have two thousand who can still ride to war," said Éomer. "We lost many men and horses."

Boromir estimated that he had about one thousand men, give or take a few hundred. Logan had to admit that it didn't sound like a lot, but at least they were in their thousands and not their hundreds. He'd been in worse battles before. It was quickly decided, and with surprisingly little resistance, that they would ride for the Black Gates in two days. It was an apt name and for once, one that Logan could pronounce properly.

"I shall come," said Denethor suddenly, making everyone look up from their planning.

"Father, there is no reason for you to—" began Boromir, but Denethor lifted a hand to cut him off in midsentence.

"Do you truly think I am happy to sit here behind my high stone walls while my people and our allies ride out to a battle from which many, if not all, will not return? No, if this is to be our end, then I will have my part in it. I lived my whole life fighting Mordor, so let me die doing the very same." There was a gleam in the old Steward's eyes — a look that Logan recognized. He'd seen it in many veterans' faces before battles. While he had forgotten what the battles were about, he could not forget such expressions and such fervour. Apparently, the others recognized it too, because Aragorn simply nodded.

"I would be most honoured, my lord Steward," he said.

* * *

Merry was annoyed and distraught; annoyed because he could not heal quicker and distraught because Aragorn had deemed that he was not well enough to ride out with the men. "Pippin shall represent the Shire, my friend," the man had said, as if that was supposed to make him feel better. Yes, Pippin had gone to Minas Tirith without him and lived to tell the tale. However, he had been relatively safe, aiming Logan's friend's fiery eyes at their enemies. The open battlefield was another story entirely. He'd seen it and it hadn't been very pretty, to say the least.

The sky was grey, reflecting his foul mood. He sat on one of the high stone benches in the garden. His legs dangled over the edge as they were not long enough to reach the ground. If he had to stay in the Houses of Healing, then at least he would make sure that he was outdoors near the grass and the sorry looking trees. Minas Tirith had many wonderful things, but the gardens were pitiful. Maybe it was the proximity to Mordor; that seemed to make everything wither.

His arm still felt a little cold, although it was no longer numb. That had to be a good thing. He spotted Logan striding towards him for his daily visit, and the hobbit wondered if he could persuade the clawed man to smuggle him into battle again as he had done. But no, he doubted it would work this time, not after what had happened. "You look cheerful," the Wolverine commented as he drew near.

"I suppose you know that I'm not coming with you," said Merry.

"Yeah, I guess I do," said Logan. He sat down on the stone bench beside the hobbit. "But Aragorn's got a point, y'know. If no one makes it back, then hey, at least you're here to make sure that no one forgets what we've done."

"I'd rather ride with my friends, still," said Merry. "You are obviously going, Boromir and Aragorn and Legolas and Gimli, and even Pippin are going. Frodo and Sam are off who knows where. That's all the Fellowship, except me. It's a terrible thing, you know, to be the only one left behind."

"I know, bub," said Logan softly. "I know. But that ain't an excuse to be stupid, Merry, so don't you come followin' us when you're in no shape to fight. There's no shame in stayin' behind because you're hurt."

"I'm not you, Logan," said the hobbit with a smile. "I know what 'no' means."

"I'm not so sure about that," said the Wolverine.

"In theory, I do," said Merry. "In actuality, maybe I'm not so different from you, even if I don't have claws."

"You have the tongue to make up for it, bub," said Logan. "Don't worry about Pippin. Yes, you really are that easy to read, or maybe I'm just gettin' better at it. I'll keep an eye on him."

"Two eyes, if possible," said Merry.

* * *

It looked pretty close on the map, but in truth, the Black Gates were a long way from Minas Tirith. They'd been riding for four days through plains and rocky terrain. The days were growing shorter —and that had absolutely nothing to do with the weather and half the time, they had to ride in what counted as darkness with only short breaks. Logan's thighs —and other parts— had grown rather numb from all that time in the uncomfortable saddle, probably from a lack of circulation. He felt as if he was quite ready to kill someone for his predicament, although that probably stemmed from his lack of sleep rather than some deeply disturbing homicidal tendencies. After all, he had slept about five hours in total in the past three days. There were too many thoughts on his mind. How could anyone sleep with so much mental noise?

The terrain changed as they rode on. Sparse grass and bushes yielded to gnarled twisted leviathans with thorns as long as a man's finger before all plant life dwindled out completely and gave way to desert with jagged rocks sticking up from the ground every few feet. They had to be careful to guide their horses around them. At this point in time, no one could afford a lame steed. Hot dry winds blew coarse sand into their faces, almost blinding them. Men covered their faces with whatever they had, not that it helped much because they simply could not cover their eyes. Unfortunately, glasses had not been invented yet.

Gandalf had not allowed Scott to come, no matter what One Eye and Logan had said to try and make him change his mind. In a way, Logan could see the reason behind that decision. Scott's powers were better for defence when he couldn't see anything and even if he did ride out to battle with the rest of them, he might just give a new definition to the term 'friendly fire'. Not exactly what they hoped to achieve. Still, it would have been interesting to see Cyclops try and blast a hole in Mordor's walls. Sour Ron would really have to pay attention then.

They came within sight of the Black Gates on the sixth day. "Holy shit," whispered Logan. Never in his life had he seen anything so imposing. Walls of black rock rose above them, glinting menacingly in the unnatural light. From this distance, it seemed as if the rock was some sort of metal compound, but it was hard to tell and Chemistry was not one of the Wolverine's strong points either. Spikes topped the walls and the gates and on them were severed heads in various stages of composition. Skulls with empty eye sockets, sunken cheeks and macabre grins stretched across their faces stared down at them. Some orcs had gathered at the top of the gates to watch the unfolding spectacle, sneering at this hopelessly outnumbered army.

In the end, Aragorn had taken four thousand men with him, leaving three thousand behind to guard the city from any enemies who might attack from the north. They were spread out as far as they could in order to try and stop the enemy from flanking them. Among them were several hundred Easterling archers. These were men who had gone against their own people and given their allegiance to the men of the west, some out of greed and others out of a sense of righteousness. They were seasoned mercenaries, according to Boromir. They looked it too, with their long sabres and short curved bows. Like the nomadic warriors from Rohan, their armour was considerably lighter than those of the knights, which made them perfect for quick manoeuvres.

The plan was to place the eastern contingent and the nomadic riders at the flanks, with the heavily armoured knights in the centre. That way, it would prevent the enemy from cutting their forces in half. Besides, spreading out the men like that made them look slightly more impressive.

The army halted right outside the gates. "What now?" whispered Logan to Legolas.

"It is only polite to announce ourselves," said the elf. For someone who was facing almost certain death, he was uncommonly cheerful.

"So...we holler?" said Logan. He could do that.

"Not 'we'," said Legolas. "Aragorn. He is the one in charge, and the one man who can get Sauron's attention."

Aragorn spurred his horse onwards, looking every bit the warrior king in his new armour, 'new' being a relative term. However, antique armour or not, he could probably give Richard the Lionheart a run for his money. Someone had even found him a black cape to wear. Logan gave his horse several sharp kicks before the animal got the idea and trotted behind Aragorn's delegation of representatives, thus ruining the otherwise coordinated formation. Since it was a delegation of representatives for all free peoples, he was definitely going to be a part of it. Who else was going to represent mutants otherwise?

* * *

**A/N: **I hope you enjoyed the chapter. I couldn't get to the battle, but maybe that's for the best. I had a bit of a block when writing this.


	52. The Last Stand

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything that you recognize. It all belongs to J.R.R. Tolkien, New Line Cinema, Marvel and 20th Century Fox. **

_**Note: **__In the previous chapter, I took some liberties with Gondorian army organization. Tolkien never mentioned any Easterlings or Southrons fighting for the West (not that I noticed, anyway), but I never liked the idea of certain races being evil or the idea that people's loyalties are bound solely by race. Thus, I borrowed ideas from the Crusades and based the 'eastern contingent' on the Turcopoles. _

**Party pony: **I loathe writer's block. Unfortunately, I seem to get it most when I have time for writing. Haha, Logan isn't all that fond of rules, as we've probably all realized by now. ;)

**Miss: **Yeah, the previous chapter definitely needs more work. I'm waiting until it's less fresh in my mind so I can go over it with a more critical eye. Does Logan ever clean his claws?

_Thanks to all my reviewers! _

**Chapter 52: The Last Stand...Or Not**

His horse shifted nervously beneath him. Logan kept a tight hold on the reins in case the animal decided to bolt. He could not help feeling a little nervous himself. The gates were even larger up close. Who needed such big gates? Had Ron been a giant before he'd become a giant fiery eyeball. He he'd seen the eye in the distance, suspended between two prongs at the top of a black tower that rose far above the tops of the walls.

Unnatural light flashed. Coldness crept over his skin as if someone had poured ice cold water over him even though the desert winds were warm. He listened carefully. High above them was the sound of beating wings. The black riders were watching.

"Let the Lord of the Black Land come forth!" Aragorn called. His voice bounced off the heavy metal gates and echoed in the vast emptiness. There was no response except for the cackles of a few orcs. The gates remained firmly closed. "Let him come forth and answer for all that he has done!"

They waited, and waited. Still, there was no response. Logan was beginning to lose his patience, if he hadn't already lost all of it during the long ride here. They'd come for a fight, and he wanted it over and done with while they still had the strength to put up a struggle. This place leeched men of their strength and courage. It was as if there was something in the air that sucked the very life out of them. He'd never felt this way ever before in his life. So much fear, so much despair. Yes, he had been afraid and he had despaired before, but not like this. There was something going on. Perhaps Ron wanted to wait until they were all too depressed to fight. Actually, that was not an unreasonable line of thought, only it just didn't appeal to him very much.

Stuff it. Aragorn just wasn't loud enough or rude enough. Since they didn't have loudspeakers here, they were going to have to improvise. The Wolverine could be very loud if he wanted to be. He opened his mouth, but then hesitated. It probably wasn't right to steal the spotlight from the king in front of everyone. Besides, he'd done way too much attention stealing in the past few months. Still, if Ron and his armies of millions didn't come out soon, they were going to be demoralized and Frodo was not likely to reach the volcano.

Wait...if he invited everyone to shout along with him, not only would it be louder, but they'd also feel better and Aragorn could not possibly blame everyone for stealing his limelight, could he? And it really wouldn't matter because being outshouted by one's army was not the same as being outshouted by one's clawed friend. Logan risked letting go of the reins to cup his hands around his mouth. "Come on, you bastard!" he roared. Had to keep it clean for the noblemen present, especially all of those who didn't know him very well. Otherwise, he would have used something a lot stronger than 'bastard'. They were awfully prudish when it came to language usage. His voice bounced off the gates and the walls of rock. Everyone turned to look at him. He shrugged. Not waiting for the echoes to fade, he waved madly at the men behind him, trying to get them to join in. Luckily, some of them were smart enough to understand, or maybe some hand signals were universal, because a few of them did start to call out, and the rest followed.

Soon there was a unanimous din, with the underlying percussion of swords and spears being beaten against shields. If one was to judge the size of the army by listening to them, one might have mistaken them for being an army of seventy thousand instead of seven thousand. Logan hoped that the orcs couldn't count. Despite his kingly demeanor, Aragorn was grinning in a most un-royal way. "You are incorrigible," he said to Logan.

The Wolverine returned the grin. "That's why you love me, innit?" he said.

There was a grating sound of metal rubbing against rock. The shouts of the men died down as the giant gates opened just ever so slightly — enough to let one rider pass through.

He rode upon a steed so black that one had to wonder if its coat had been dyed. The beast was frothing at the mouth. Its nostrils flared as it caught the men's scent, and it tossed its head as it pranced on metal-shod hooves. Logan wondered what breed of horse it was, or whether it was actually a zombie of a horse, because the creature was so skeletal that it looked as if it had died sometime during the Late Cretaceous. The rider yanked on the reins, causing the horse to rise up on its hind legs ever so slightly before falling back onto all fours, raising a cloud of dust.

"Who dares to call upon the Master of Mordor?" The rider spoke slowly, enunciating every word with careful deliberation. His face was covered by a metal mask so that only his mouth could be seen, although that was too much, in Logan's opinion. Hadn't these people heard of toothpaste before? Even orcs had whiter teeth than this rider, whatever he might be. He had a distinct feeling that this was not one of those nasty ghouls because he didn't feel like running away from him, although the sound of the rider's voice did make the hairs on his arms rise —only metaphorically, of course.

The rider seemed to have two voices and they were both speaking at once. One sounded like fingernails on a blackboard whilst the other was like the low growl of a lion before it went in for the kill. "I am the Mouth of Sauron," he said. The mouth only? Was Ron the dismembered Dark Lord or something? "Is there any in this rabble with the authority to delegate with me, or even the wit to understand me?" He sneered as he spoke the last part of his sentence, turning to look Aragorn directly in the eye. The man stiffened and lifted his head just a little higher as if to remind himself of who and what he was, but he kept his gaze fixed steadily on his opponent. "Oh, not you. It takes more than some elven trinket to make a king."

Well, Logan was definitely ready to rip the Mouth a new mouth. He growled and popped his claws. They came out with a metallic ring. Whoops. He hadn't really meant to distract everyone, especially not at such a delicate point in time.

"This is no rabble," said the Mouth. He laughed. "This is a menagerie!"

If Legolas hadn't reached out to grip his arm and remind him of what was at stake here, Logan would have leapt and slashed that man-thing into a couple of pieces, diplomatic situation or not. No one called him an animal and got away with it. Absolutely no one. The elf had only delayed the inevitable. The Wolverine was going to get revenge, no matter what it took.

"We have not come to delegate with Sauron," said Gandalf, "but to issue a warning. Unless he has found some new wisdom, then he, along with all his servants, will be in great peril." He urged Shadowfax forward. White against black, just like in chess, except this was the deadliest chess game Logan had ever watched.

"Ah, old greybeard, so you have made yourself the spokesman of this..." said the rider, trailing off as he waved his hand at the delegation before him as if he could not find a word lowly enough to describe them. Then he held up a finger as if he'd suddenly remembered something. "I have something here that might interest you."

From within his the folds of his robes, he pulled out a bundle of rags and held them up in front of the delegation. At first, there seemed to be nothing very special about them, but then they glimpsed the glint of metal —rather too shiny to be iron or steel— and Logan caught a familiar scent coming from those rags, hidden beneath the layers of smells left by the orcs and whatever else had come into contact with them. The quick intakes of breath that he heard from various members of the Fellowship indicated that they, too, had realized the significance of those rags. Those were the remains of Frodo's clothes, and if Frodo's clothing had fallen into the hands of the Mouth of Ron...

'Deep breaths, Logan,' he told himself. 'There'll be plenty of time to lose it later.' Analytical; he had to think analytically. If they were all on a one-way roadtrip to hell, then he'll save it all for later when the fighting really began. Although, if Legolas would only let go of his arm, then he'd quite happily start early on Ron's Mouth. He stared at the rags and the 'me-thrill' shirt. Something didn't seem quite right. It was just his instincts clamouring, but his instincts were usually correct.

Frodo's clothes were here, and he'd never take off that mail shirt if he hadn't been forced to, so that indicated that the orcs probably had gotten him. But Frodo also carried that stupid ring, and wasn't Ron supposed to be really really powerful if he got his hands —cornea, iris, whatever— on the Ring? If so, then why was he sending this pathetic excuse of an ambassador to toy with their minds? It wasn't as if they had a hope in hell that they could survive if Ron actually had his ring back. But they were talking. _Talking_. Something was definitely off, which was probably a good thing for them.

Pippin, however, was not thinking so analytically, and for once, neither was anybody else, judging from the way Legolas' face had drained of blood whilst Gimli's had grown red from fury and grief. Gandalf just sat there upon his steed, staring at the bundle and looking as if he was preparing for the worst. The young hobbit almost leapt out of the saddle, and probably would have done so if his cry of grief had not alerted the wizard as to what he was about to do. Gandalf retrained him. "Silence!" he barked. His voice sounded strangely thick and harsh.

"I see you have brought another one of those imps with you," the ambassador of Mordor continued to sneer. "I cannot tell what use you see in them, and to send one against the Lord of Barad-dur is beyond even your usual folly, but I am grateful that you brought this one. At least now you cannot deny that you know these garments. Did you really think that you could prevail against the Lord of Mordor with a witless Halfling and some bedraggled ranger waving a broken sword around? There was never any hope for your cause. Surrender now, and some of you may be suffered to live."

"You're so full of shit," he snarled before he could stop himself, not that he actually wanted to. Someone had to say it, and who would if he didn't?

"Quiet, cur!" hissed the Mouth. Obviously, the use of expletives, or maybe the fact that Logan actually spoke and was smart enough to see through his tricks offended him.

"Well, would you rather I said 'excrement', bub?" said Logan. If he was right, then he might just wound Mordor's ego just a little, and if not, well, the most harm he would have done was made a fool of himself. He'd done that enough times to cease caring. They were all looking at him. He urged his horse forward, aware that he was deliberately stealing the spotlight this time, and that it was probably against some unwritten law to steal the spotlight from the key negotiator during negotiations. But he was the Wolverine and beyond any code except his own. His friends were much too shocked to stop him. Not in time, at any rate. Never before had he deliberately done something so outrageous. He'd done similar things accidentally, of course, but he usually shut up quickly. The beast was straining against the leash that Logan had put about its neck, its claws and teeth flashing as it tried to surface. Logan pushed it back down. Now wasn't the time. "You think you can come out here, flash your bad teeth and throw bad logic in our faces and make us fear you? Well, think again, bub, coz I'm smarter than that, and if you really think we're that stupid then you ain't got a chance in the world."

* * *

Bad logic._ Logan_, of all people, was talking about logic? That in itself sounded slightly illogical although Boromir had to be impressed with how his friend was handling this servant of Sauron's. This was certainly a different approach. He supposed that if they were going to lose and die, then they might as well do so with some flair. Everyone, including the Dark Lord's ambassador, looked so perplexed that someone like Logan would even dare to speak in a situation like this, much less in this manner. But now that the Wolverine had mentioned flawed logic, there was something highly suspicious about this whole business. If Sauron had the Ring, then why was he wasting time in trying to make them feel inferior?

"_What_ is this?" demanded the Mouth. "You would let this baying beast speak?

Boromir wondered if he should step in before Logan killed someone, but since no one was making any move to stop him, not even Gandalf, he decided to wait a little longer. The Wolverine seemed to have control of the situation. As much as he looked like he wanted to attack, the claws did not appear, although the vein in his temple was throbbing. In fact, he was so deadly calm --by his standards-- that he deserved congratulations.

"You listen to me carefully, bub," he whispered. Everyone heard it, for the only sounds contending with him were the hot desert winds bringing the scent of death towards them. "I'll only say it once. We're gonna fight, and you're gonna die. It's that simple. And before this day is over, I'll rip you a new mouth with my own bare hands."

* * *

Maybe he'd stepped over the boundaries, but it sure as hell didn't feel like it. No one was telling him off or even just chiding him as they rode back to where the main army was. The Mouth had gone back within, probably to report to his master, but the lull would not last for long. Or, at least, he hoped not. Then again, why would Ron wait? His greatest enemy was here for the taking. If he smashed this army, he'd mostly likely smash all resistance in Middle Earth, since every military leader of importance was here.

Tension was thick. The men stared at the closed gates, no doubt imagining what would emerge once they opened. Such nervousness was not to be tolerated. Something would have to be done, most likely a speech. These noblemen seemed to be fond of their speeches.

Aragorn wheeled his horse around to face the men. Above him, his standard flew. Whatever Arwen had used to embroider the emblem, it caught the light of the sun and made the emblem look as if it was being burned into the black fabric. It flew proudly in the wind; a symbol of defiance, of righteousness, of freedom. Well, it was a monarchy, so there had to be limits on freedom, but Logan supposed that life under Aragorn would be much freer than life under Ron. The Wolverine sat up straighter in his saddle and tried to ignore how uncomfortable he was. It wasn't that he wasn't honoured to be chosen to ride with all the important people, but he just really didn't enjoy horse riding and would have much rather have walked all the way to Mordor.

"My brothers of Gondor and Rohan!" called Aragorn. He lifted his sword high, letting the blade reflect the sun's weak rays. "Now is the hour when our fate is to be decided, but today, our fate shall not be in the hands of our enemies. No! We shall carve our fate with steel and write our futures in blood! Our enemies shall hear the ring of our swords and feel the bite of our blades and they will know what we can do! Ride with me, brothers in arms! Ride with me, Men of the West!"

Maybe it was just a coincidence, or maybe there was something truly magical about that sword and that bloodline, because at that moment, the clouds above Aragorn suddenly parted and a beam of sun, bright and pure, pierced through the gloom to shine down upon the man, dispersing the impending sense of doom for one brief moment. Then the fumes of Mordor prevailed again and the shaft of light was cut off, but it was enough. During that glancing moment in time, the men seemed to realize that they could only go forward. There was no other choice. If they tried to run, death would surely overtake them. If they fought, then at least they would die the deaths of warriors, and perhaps their names would live on in the tales.

The thundering cheer that followed Aragorn's speech —as cheesy as it sounded to Logan— almost deafened the Wolverine. Not that he cared. He raised his voice to join in with the cheering. This was the last stand. This was what he was born for; battles against impossible odds, protecting the world from being overrun by tyrants and psychopaths. The beast inside was roaring, thrashing, struggling to get out. He held it back, just for a few moments longer. It would get its rampage soon enough. It might even be its last rampage and if so, then this was the last chance for him to be human.

The Black Gates opened, fully this time, and a seething black horde poured out. The arrangement was simple, but then, the enemy hardly needed complicated arrangements to overpower them. Small stooped orcs were situated at the very front. Their shields bore the design of a crudely painted red eye. Behind them were archers with their wicked short curved bows. They didn't have a very long range, but when it came to close combat, that hardly mattered. And it was going to be _very_ close combat indeed.

"It was an honour to have known you, my brothers," said Aragorn. These were private words, not from a king to fellow kings and subjects, but as one man to his friends. He looked as if he might have made some sappy touching speech worthy of Hollywood, but a horn blast from the orcs distracted him. Not that he needed to say anything more. They knew what he meant, and Logan, for one, was slightly relieved that he wasn't going to have to match up to the sappiness. He wasn't sure if he could handle it.

The two armies stood facing each other, for neither was willing to make the first move. The men did not like the odds and the orcs...well, what were the orcs waiting for? Maybe they were just wimps. It seemed like a rational and scientific explanation. He glanced at the rest of his companions, waiting for the signal. There was silence. Then the orcs began to snarl. Not willing to let that pass, Logan snarled back. He was getting sick of waiting. If they were all going to die, then he'd rather they get on with it instead of standing here and thinking about what would happen if they did charge, because that really couldn't be a pretty scene.

Either Aragorn read his thoughts, or he was thinking along similar lines, for he let out a wordless battle cry. It was soon followed by the trumpeting of every horn they had and the clashing of shields. Aragorn spurred his horse forwards, and the rest of them forwards. Logan didn't even have to try and control his horse as he was swept along by the wave of men and horses, which was just as well, because he was clinging onto the pommel for dear life. If he was really meant to die, then he'd rather he didn't end up being trampled by large herbivores. He'd never hear the end of it otherwise.

* * *

The light cavalry closed in on the enemy's flanks, distracting the orcs and making them lose formation, thus causing the centre to thin out before they realized what was going on. It was too late. The heavy cavalry smashed into the weakened centre, cutting through the orc's ranks like a spearhead and thus separating them. Of course, this situation could not possibly be maintained for long, but at least the orcs were confused. That gave them some advantage.

Seething bodies surged against the horses as the riders waded through the ranks of orcs. Blades fell, and the air was filled with the metallic scent of blood, orc, equine and human. Logan gave up even trying to control his horse. The poor beast was terrified, as it had every right to be. The only thing the Wolverine wanted was not to be carried off by the bolting beast.

Shield met shield, blade met blade. Sharp pikes pierced the breasts of charging horses. Others were bowled over by lunging wargs and met untimely ends in their slavering jaws. It was an absolute mess —kinda like one very ugly omelette that had been flipped out of the frying pan before it had solidified.

Thus it began, their last stand against evil and tyranny — their last chance for freedom. Well, it would only be a last stand if they lost. If they won, they'd probably have to do this kind of thing over and over again. There was no end to evil or the lust for power. The Wolverine knew that better than most. This did not mean that he was about ti give up, of course, as depressing as it sounded. Giving up was not in his vocabulary.

He let the beast take over. The roar of battle was making it impossible to control his wild animalistic self. The sheer amount of adrenaline in his bloodstream was making his head feel light. He felt strength flow through his limbs, smelled the fear of his enemies and heard the rapid beating of their hearts and their harsh breathing. The scent of blood was keen, and it only made him want more. He was filled with a type of ecstasy that he had never known. It was as if he had finally found his place in life. Not a particularly nice place, his human self reflected, but at least he belonged as he never would in the normal world. Maybe that was why he had participated in all the major wars in the past few centuries. On the battlefield, no one cared that he was rude or that he had claws. He was just another man fighting for a cause —or maybe some cold hard cash.

His claws sliced through armour and flesh. The unlucky orc tried to scream, but it choked on its own blood and only managed a soft liquid gurgle. Logan shoved the dying creature off his claws with a booted foot before whipping around to plunge those lethal lengths of indestructible metal into an orcish shield, right where the red painted pupil was. Let Ron know what the Wolverine thought of him and his scare tactics!

The orc holding the shield screeched and tried to hack at Logan's arm, but the mutant was quicker. He wrenched the shield away from the orc, snapping the leather straps. The force of the movement caused the orc to fall forwards and directly onto the claws of his other hand. The Wolverine roared in jubilation as he pulled his claws out of the corpse and then flung the shield at yet another one of those dark creatures, striking it in the head and causing it to fall backwards.

Man and beast had become one; Logan no longer kept himself distanced as the animal inside him took over. He was using the beast's strength and ferocity, but it was the man who was fighting. He knew exactly what he was doing. In fact, he'd never been more conscious of his actions. It was as if he'd somehow morphed into Victor, both a calculating human being and a ruthless predator. Perhaps his brother was with him right now, not that he believed that there was such a thing as an afterlife, unless one was a telepath and Victor certainly hadn't been a mind reader.

A guttural snarl made him turn around. A warg, larger than any other warg he had ever seen, was closing in on him. Its yellowed fangs were bared and glistening threads of saliva hung from them. Not waiting for the animal to attack, Logan took a running leap, propelling himself through the air and heading straight for the giant predator. However, he wasn't looking to kill. No, he had other ideas.

For as long as he could remember, which, admittedly, wasn't very long at all, he had been the type of man who could not accept failure. He'd simply keep trying until he succeeded, and given the nature of his existence, he was bound to succeed one day. Therefore, he was not content toe accept the fact that he could not become a warg rider just like his brother.

He landed on the creature's back —facing the wrong way, but that could easily be remedied, or so he thought. The impact almost broke the warg's spine, since Logan was not a particularly small or light man. However, wargs were tough creatures and this one was tougher than most. It recovered almost at once and whirled around so quickly that Logan nearly got thrown off —and that would have definitely happened if he hadn't been clutching onto handfuls of the thick, coarse fur. For a moment, he felt like one of those fools who got tied to horses or donkeys backwards as a form of punishment, like that idiot king from that crusade movie. Then he realized that it was a ridiculous line of thought. No one cared about how stupid he looked right now. Survival was a tiny little bit more important than appearances. Just a little.

The warg's bucking would put a rodeo horse to shame and Logan was pretty sure that he was better than any cowboy in the world. However, he was having hard time just hanging on and staying out of the way of those snapping jaws that looked as if they could crush a rock, let alone trying to turn around so that he was not looking at the warg's...hindquarters. The thing suddenly sat down and Logan, not expecting this, was flung off its back, still clutching the handfuls of fur. He sailed through the air like a torpedo, all the while hoping that he would not land on his friends or their allies.

At least that wish was granted when he landed on the hard ground some twenty feet away, in the midst of what seemed like a contingent of orc archers. They had scattered and now made no move to attack Logan, probably because the warg was charging at full speed towards the man who had dared to think that he could tame it. Logan didn't like the way things looked. He was surrounded by orcs, the nearest Gondorian standard —he couldn't exactly see people very clearly— was something like one hundred feet away and there was a mad warg coming straight for him. In fact, it looked downright nasty. And then the warg fell in mid charge, a sword sticking from its neck. It snarled and snapped and tried to get up, scrabbling desperately at the sandy ground, but the weapon had obviously damaged its nervous system. Logan looked up to see the last person he had expected to come to his rescue.

Now there was no mystery as to who Boromir had inherited his warrior's genes from.

* * *

**A/N: **I hope you enjoyed the chapter. I'm not sure how I managed to write so much about that moment in front of the Black Gates, but maybe that's how I roll. ;)


	53. Of Midgets and Mutants

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything that you recognize.**

**Miss: **When can Logan ever keep his mouth shut? Certainly not at sensitive moments. :P

**Partypony: **What can I say? Miracles do happen. Logan might wake up one day and be a rational person. It was actually Denethor who saved Logan from the warg. ;)

**Chapter 53: Of Midgets and Mutants**

The battle surged around him. He felt as if he was in the middle of a storm at sea. The orcs came at him, retreated when he put up too much of a fight for their liking, and then went for him again when they got their courage back — or just more back-up. His claws, his hands, his face —every bit of him was stained with the blood of his enemies. The Texan Chainsaw Massacre could not have been bloodier. Then again, this was way more righteous, so it wasn't really right to compare it to people chopping up other people with chainsaws.

There was no end to the number of enemies. For each one he killed, two more seemed to replace them. Still, he refused to be discouraged. He only had two choices, after all; die fighting or die running. He had already chosen a long time ago.

Of course, dying presented a huge problem. He'd promised Merry that he'd keep two eyes on Pippin, and he couldn't do that if he was dead, could he? Speaking of which, where was Pippin? Logan looked about him frantically. He could see loads of orcs —more than enough to move entire mountain ranges, he suspected— and the occasional flashes of grimy silver armour, oh, and Legolas, who stuck out like a sore thumb, to use a cliché. However, no Pippin.

He shouted the hobbit's name, struggling to be heard above the din. As loud as he was, he was no match for the combined shouting and screaming of what seemed like the entire population of Mordor and more. Of course, the idea that Mordor actually had a living population boggled his mind. This place looked like that it ought to be one of those dead zones. And here he was, getting off topic with his thoughts again. He was cut off in mid-shout when he was forced to concentrate on mincing orcs that were wielding short broad blades and spiked hammers. Multi-tasking had never been the beast's strength, and the beast wasn't particularly good at talking either. It preferred to growl or snarl or do something that did not require the careful enunciation of consonants and vowels.

Bits of metal and meat flew everywhere as Logan threw himself into his work. It was cut out for him, so to speak. His claws were nothing but silver blurs as he methodically slaughtered those who got in his path. The beast was exulting in the gory glory of this bloodbath. For once, the man did not feel so disgusted. Sparks flew as adamantium grated against iron. Blood, as black —and as foul— as crude oil, splashed into his eyes, blinding him momentarily. As he tried to wipe the liquid out of his eyes, he heard the whistle of an arrow cutting through the air and tired to dodge, but he was not quick enough.

Moments later, there was an explosion of pain, and he knew that he had an arrow in his chest, and it was embedded quite deeply too. He tasted the coppery blood at the back of his throat. That stupid thing had punctured his lung. Not that that had ever stopped him before. He yanked out the thick projectile, completely aware that it did more damage coming out than it had done going in. He grunted with the pain. The Wolverine did not scream in the face of such trivial injuries. Then again, it might not be so trivial. There was something sticky and medicinal-smelling on the shaft. That coward of a bowman had poisoned it. Damn, that was going to slow down his metabolism, if only just a little.

He blinked to clear his vision. There, about twenty feet in front of him, was the Mouth, sitting astride his mummified black steed and holding a crossbow. He was looking very smug; too smug for Logan's liking, and what Logan didn't like, he always changed, one way or another. Usually that involved some violent action on his part. Still, he couldn't act right now. He needed to be in tip-top shape if he was going to go for Ron's spokesperson with all these orcs in the vicinity.

The foul things had crowded around the wounded Wolverine as he stood with his head bowed and his shoulders heaving, but none of them dared to touch him, not just because of his claws, but because the Mouth had claimed him as his kill. It suited Logan just fine. Usually, he didn't like being toyed with like a cat's captive mouse at the best of times, but right now, he could use the lull.

"You said you were going to...what was it? Rip me a new mouth with your bare hands," the Mouth said, taunting him. The beast was snarling, but Logan did not rise to the bait. The man had slightly better judgement. Just slightly. "Now look at you, beast-man. What can you do against the might of the Lord of Mordor? You were fool to ever think that you could be a threat to me."

Logan suddenly looked up. He hawked up a wad of bloody hlegm and then spat to the side. "And you're an idiot, bub, for ever thinking that I couldn't," he growled. There was a great deal of satisfaction in seeing that sneer fade so quickly from the Mouth's face. That humanoid thing had obviously thought that the Wolverine was going to fall to one measly poisoned arrow. Unfortunately for him, he had a lot to learn about mutant biology.

Before anyone could react, Logan propelled himself into the air, heading straight for the Mouth with his claws extended before him. The Mouth of Ron had a sharp tongue, Logan had to admit, but the Wolverine's claws were sharper, and longer too. The lengths of metal pierced the breastplate of steel and the chainmail beneath it. The two of them toppled to the ground, one with the tips of shiny claws emerging from his back. "One last piece of advice," said Logan as he yanked his claws out of the dying humanoid, "I recommend Colgate. It tastes pretty nice for toothpaste."

The Mouth did not reply. He could not. The humanoid simply lay there with blood pouring out of his mouth and staining his teeth even further. Logan paid him no more attention. As far as he was concerned, he'd fulfilled his promise to the thing and ripped him a new one. He was about to straighten himself and move onto his next project, whatever that happened to be, but a shadow looming over him made him change his mind. If he got up now, his head would be in the direct path of a lucky troll's swinging mace. He was pretty sure his head was harder than that mace, but he didn't want to risk another headache.

He dived for the ground and then rolled, getting back onto his feet right beside the creature's giant foot, reaching for the sword strapped to his back just at that moment. Still in a kneeling position, with one knee on the ground, he unsheathed the sword and with one fluid movement, cut into the back of the troll's leg, just at the point where the calf met the foot. If his judgement was right, then troll anatomy was not so different from human anatomy, and he would have, in effect, cut through the Achilles tendon. He was beginning to understand why Biology class was important.

The troll roared as it collapsed onto one knee, still not knowing what had struck him. Size was not always an advantage, especially not when there was a quick-thinking hunter about. Its mace sent orcs and men alike flying. Logan, however, was safely out of the way and preparing himself for another attack. Very few people could take on a troll, in his opinion, and he was one of those. No, no one had ever said that he was humble. He certainly hadn't.

He placed his trust in the beast within him. It certainly felt as if it knew what it was doing. He leapt with a roar, aiming for the troll's head, or rather, where the head met the neck. He had to get this right on the first try; there was too much at stake for him to fail. Instead of striking the cartilage between the vertebrae as he had intended, the blade hit bone and was stuck. Logan let go immediately, not wanting to hang from the back of the troll's neck like some macabre living ornament. He landed on all fours and then rolled away just in time to avoid being crushed by a heavy fist. Oh well, the troll was down; it wasn't as if it could run around chasing people anymore. If they all stayed away, then they'd be safe. Meanwhile, there were more pressing troubles to worry about, such as the eight dragons diving through the air and closing in on the kill.

* * *

Pippin ducked as an orc took a swipe at him, thinking that small prey was easy prey. At the moment, the hobbit felt inclined to agree with the orc. While most orcs ignored him in favour of larger and more important warriors some of those small hunchbacked ones had taken too much interest in him for his liking. He had tried his best to stay close to Gandalf, but after the wizard had abandoned his horse to fight on foot, it had been difficult to keep up with someone who was so tall and who had such long legs. 'Have some courage, Peregrin Took,' he told himself as he darted at his enemy and scored a shallow blow on the orc's leg. He'd already killed a few of these things, but there seemed to be a lot of them. Merry was so much better at all of this battle business. Wait...he wasn't going to let a _Brandybuck_ outdo him, was he? Merry would never let him hear the end of it. If his cousin could kill —no, _help_ kill only— the Witch King of Angmar, then why couldn't Peregrin Took deal with a few orcs? Right, so there was more than just a few. There seemed to be an entire legion surrounding him , or at least it felt that way.

Duck. Feint. Cut. Block. He tried not to think about how terrified he was of dying. He'd known that there would be a huge chance that none of them would survive the battle and he was willing to give up his life if it meant giving Frodo the time he needed to complete his quest, but to be very honest, Pippin wasn't altogether that fond of the notion of dying. He'd rather live to eat more blueberry pies with whipped cream and powdered sugar, thank you very much.

One of the orcs was too quick for him. Time seemed to slow down for the hobbit as the orc's sword came down. He couldn't move, and the only thing he could think of was how much it would hurt when that dull-looking and very dirty blade chopped his head open like a watermelon. The others were going to be furious if they found out that he'd gotten himself killed. The sword never reached him. A flying roaring blur knocked the orc to the ground and crushed it quite effectively.

"You're not dyin' without tastin' cheese fondue first, bub," said Logan.

"I was thinking of berry pies," was all Pippin could say.

* * *

That little hobbit was a lot tougher than he looked. Well, he actually looked terrified and a little bit frail, but Logan recognized the way Pippin set his jaw. The two of them were going to show dear Ronnie just what midgets and wolverines were made of. And he didn't mean DNA.

Loud high-pitched screams soon put an end to that line of thought. Actually, they put an end to all thoughts in Logan's head, with the exception of how much he hated this. He clapped his hands over his ears, but it was no use. He could feel the vibrations in his bones as if he was being shaken to pieces. Shadows passed overhead. Huge shadows. He was vaguely aware of Pippin shouting his name and pulling fatuously at his arm. If the best could whimper, it would.

Then the screeching suddenly stopped. For a moment, Logan stood there, dazed, and then he recalled that they were surrounded by legion upon legion of orcs. They might not have attacked him and Pippin yet, probably due to the fact that he had claws, but if he didn't act quickly, they would be swarming over them like fire ants on a corpse. A clear call rang out, followed by the dull flapping of giant wings. Giant feathered wings. Indeed, the difference between feathered wings and membranous ones were phenomenal, at least where Logan and evolution were concerned. Feathers trumped skin membranes any day.

Huge eagles with wicked hooked beaks and talons designed to kill had engaged the black riders' winged steeds in battle. It was a clash of the airborne titans. The birds ripped great tears in the dragons' wing membranes, causing them to lose balance. The great scaly beasts plummeted to the ground, exploding in a mess of blood, meat and intestines and crushing men and orcs alike. That would have worked out great if the nasty ghouls were capable of dying from bad falls, but alas, they proved to be extremely hard to kill.

A large figure, cloaked in black, rose from the cloud of dust, deadlier and more furious than ever. He let out a terrible scream of rage and then unsheathed his irrationally long sword. The metal glinted dully in the unnatural light of Mordor. His black robes billowed around him, making him seem even larger. A remote part of Logan's mind noted that it had the same effect as raised hackles of a dog or a chicken's fluffed up feathers. Unfortunately, the black rider wasn't as benign as an enraged parrot.

There was nothing for it. If someone didn't do something soon, that ghoul could probably massacre them all. If they were all on a one-way roadtrip to Hell, then Logan was going to make sure that he dragged one of those black riders down with him. "Change of plans, Pippin," he murmured, briefly glancing back at the hobbit who was standing stalwartly at his side and brandishing his short blade in front of him in a defensive stance. "Sorry, bub, but I guess I'll see you on the other side."

"I hope they have cheese 'fond dew' there, whatever that is," said Pippin. He gave Logan a small smile. They both knew that this was probably going to be the end.

"If they don't, no big deal," said Logan. "I heard that the barbecues are spectacular." With that, he threw himself at the black rider with a roar, aiming for the head. That was where Éowyn had stabbed that other one. It was his best bet. He didn't know if it was going to work, because apparently, there had been some prophecy about that other one's demise, but he had to give it a try. This was the beast's last charge, and this was his last battle, probably the most significant and meaningful one out of all the great battles he'd ever fought. If his actions meant that more men would live to fight on, then this would all be worth it. After all, wasn't this the reason he had been sent here? It couldn't just have been an odd coincidence.

The rider blocked the claws with his blade. The metal clang when it struck the adamantium, but instead of slicing cleanly through the blade, which was what Logan had expected to happen, his claws only made dents on the edge. He struck out with a foot, hoping to hit something solid beneath the billowing fabric. There had to be some substance under there, right? How else could the ghoul have a human shape? However, he only felt fabric. Apparently, the only thing solid about the ghoul was its armour.

Logan lurched and stumbled backwards as the wraith struck him across the face with a gauntleted hand. The spikes on the gauntlet scored deep gashes across his face. Blood ran into his eyes, blinding him. He blinked rapidly and then wiped it away. He needed all his senses. This was the toughest opponent he'd ever faced, not that he didn't enjoy a challenge. He made a false lunge, and then feinted when the wraith made to defend, only to strike out and plunge his claws into what ought to have been the thing's heart. It had no effect whatsoever on the wraith except make it even angrier. It also made Logan's arm feel cold. Just wonderful.

He circled the ghoul warily. It had to have some weakness, right? Everything had to have a weakness. That was the rule of nature. Nothing was invincible, not even quick healing mutants with claws and adamantium covered skeletons. Of course, if the only way to kill this black rider was by starving it, then he was in big trouble.

Logan made another false lunge, aiming for the head again. The wraith made to parry and at that moment, the Wolverine dropped to the ground and went for the wraith's legs. The thing fell in a mess of tangled black fabric, just as he had intended. Before it could climb to its feet, Logan drove his claws into the emptiness where the face ought to have been. It was like shaking Bobby 'Iceman' Drake's hand, except worse. Instead of ice, he got liquid nitrogen.

The wraith's scream paralyzed him with pain. Not only did his eardrums feel as if they would burst, but his head too. He could almost feel the pressure accumulating inside his skull, even if he knew that it was scientifically impossible. Perhaps this was what being sucked into a black hole felt like. He yanked his claws out with a roar and fell back, feeling as if all the bones in his body had turned into rubber. Pippin was shouting his name over the din. He wanted to answer, but he seemed to have lost his voice as well as his strength. This was a situation he had done everything in the past to avoid, but here he was, helpless.

The black rider rose and loomed above him, a menacing and intimidating sight. If it had a face, Logan was pretty sure that it would be sneering right now. Cold fire lanced through him as the wraith plunged its sword into his chest. He felt the blade graze his ribs. He swallowed as blood bubbled into his mouth. It hurt to breathe. The tip of the sword emerged from his back. He heard the black rider's hollow hissing laugh even as his vision began to grow blurry.

Then there was silence. Peaceful silence.

* * *

They were all going to die. This was the end. Perhaps, after all these years of fighting, death would be a relief. He had never known a day when the darkness of Mordor had not weighed down on everyone he knew. It had claimed his mother's life and driven his father to madness. At least he could now say that he died because he had believed that there could be a new dawn for Middle Earth. And he still believed it. It wasn't such a bad reason, really, to die because one had faith in the strength of men united by a common cause. Great warriors had died for less.

It was like drowning, being in this battle. Try as he might, he knew he was never going to b able to cut his way through the ranks of his enemies. The eagles might have prevented the Nazgûl from doing more damage from the air, but in the end, it had been all for nothing. They were still going to lose this battle unless a miracle took place, and soon. Otherwise, even a miracle would not be able to save them.

Boromir slammed his shield against his opponent, causing the orc to stumble backwards. The creature snarled and lunged again, but its anger had clouded its judgement. The Gondorian warrior was ready for it. The orc's sword glanced off his shield and as the creature stumbled to the side, he sliced down on the back of its neck. Blood spurted from the stump like a thick black fountain. The head bounced once as it hit the ground. He didn't pay attention to what happened to it after that, because he was thoroughly distracted by a sight that turned his blood to ice.

"Logan!" he shouted, struggling to be heard. No, this could not be happening. They had all marched to Mordor, ready to die, but he hadn't been ready to see this. Out of all the people he held dear, the Wolverine was the one he had least expected to fall. He was supposed to heal from everything, wasn't he? Boromir had seen it with his own eyes. This was wrong. This wasn't supposed to happen.

The ranks of orcs closed again, blocking his fallen friend from his sight. Boromir continued to scream Logan's name, even though he knew that the Wolverine was not going to answer. However, his mind seemed to be having some difficulty accepting that. Everything seemed to become so remote. It was as if he wasn't even in his body, and was merely a spectator watching everything from afar. Maybe that was what Logan had meant when he'd describe the 'beast' taking over his body during battle. His sword became a silver and black blur as he slew anything that dared to get into his path, leaving a trail of death behind him. It wasn't until he was almost by Logan's side that he realized there was a Nazgûl standing above the body of his fallen friend.

"Foolish man," the ringwraith hissed as Boromir advanced upon it. "No one can stand against the power of Mordor!"

"Then what are _we_ doing?" came a voice from behind the wraith. There stood Pippin. The hobbit's face was stained with dirt and the blood of orcs. His voice was hard. This was not the Pippin Boromir had known. Battle had turned the playful hobbit into a warrior. What had his dream said? Ah, yes. _The Halfling forth shall stand_. Maybe it really should have said 'Halflings'.

* * *

He had grown up hearing of the tales of his sire and grandsire's feats. As a child, he had dreamed of being just like them. Perhaps someone ought to have told him to be careful of what he wished for, because right now, he was in more or less the same situation as Oropher and Thranduil had been in all those years ago, except this was even worse. Not that Legolas would ever admit that he was losing hope. He had come all the way here without expecting ever to return to his beloved woods again. This was a price he was willing to pay for his people's freedom. If they succeeded here, and success only depended on whether Frodo completed his quest or not, then all of Middle Earth would have been liberated from Sauron's shadow. If blood was what it cost, then so be it. He was ready.

His quiver had been empty for quite some time. The bone handles of his white knives felt warm in his hands, as if they were alive. He remembered when he had first gotten them as a coming of age gift from his father. How proud Thranduil had been. The elven prince drove one knife into the belly of an orc who had planned to take him from behind, and at the same time, cut the throat of another with his other blade. Speed, grace and accuracy. That was what his teacher had told him when he had been learning to use these knives. He moved away before the orc's blood could even touch him, dancing his deadly dance of death. He could hear Gimli not far away, shouting dwarven curses as he cut down countless enemies with his axes. If he was to die here, then he would not regret it, because it would be an honour to die fighting alongside one such as the dwarf. A few months ago, he would have died laughing if anyone had told him that he would feel that way.

Arrows continued to fly overhead in all directions. There was no order to this battle, no formations. It was an animalistic struggle for survival, no more, no less. Only one side could be the victor. There could be no stalemate. His knives were a blur as he moved through the ranks of orcs. The stench of their blood filled the air. He did not think about what he was doing; he simply did it. There was no time for thinking. He swept out with a leg, tripping up several orcs at once. Another one fell upon him, but the elf was too quick. He plunged his knife into the orc's throat and slammed it into the ground. The creature gurgled feebly as it scrabbled at the gaping hole in its neck, trying to stem the bleeding.

Something left a burning stripe of fire on his side. He cried out, more in fury than in pain. He should have seen that coming. He should have been able to block it. It did not matter that he was more tired that he was willing to admit. No orc should have been able to get past his defences. He ducked as the same orc tried to decapitate him and then drove both knives into its chest so forcefully that he could feel one of the blades go right through the breast bone. No one offended a son of Thranduil like that and lived to tell the tale. Absolutely no one. He pulled out the knives and then hissed as the violent movement made him very aware of the wound. It was deeper than he had first thought. Too bad. He would have to live with it until he either died or received help. The former seemed to be much more likely.

* * *

**A/N: **I got really distracted this week, so that's why the chapter is a bit shorter than usual. Plus I still have my block. :( I hope you were entertained anyway.


	54. A New Dawn

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything that you recognize. **

**i: **You're welcome. :)

**Miss: **I'm glad you liked it.

**Jak'idiot: **When is it a good time to get a block? I could never kill Logan. He'd never let me. ;)

**Partypony: **I guess you should know that I like my cliffhangers by now. :P Wraiths are much trickier than most things Logan has ever encountered before.

_Thanks to all my reviewers! _

**Chapter 54: A New Dawn**

Boromir was wary. He kept his eyes focused on the Nazgûl, knowing that any mistake on his part could mean the deaths of many, including Pippin's and his own. The hobbit's courage and resolution was admirable, but Boromir did not know how he could possibly help. Then again, hobbits were very surprising creatures. However, what could a man and a hobbit do against an enraged Ringwraith? Lady Éowyn had succeeded in slaying the Witch King of Angmar because there had been a prophecy about his demise. Maybe there was a prophecy about this wraith too, but it did not seem to be intent on sharing any life-threatening secrets.

The only thing the man could do was distract the Nazgûl so that it would not turn its attention to the other men. In other words, he was using himself as bait. If he did try to engage the wraith in genuine combat, he doubted that he would last for very long. It wasn't that he did not have confidence in his abilities. He simply did not have _that_ much confidence. Just being in the wraith's presence made him want to shiver, but he suppressed the urge. He had to focus. He had to hold out for as long as he possibly could if this idea of his was to work. This was for Gondor, and for his fallen friend. He owed it to Logan to continue what the clawed man had started, even if he could not possibly finish it.

The wraith suddenly lunged with unearthly speed that belied its size. The heavy weapon it wielded did not impede it at all. Boromir barely managed to parry the blow. The sheer force of the blow made him stumble backwards and sent vibrations shooting through his arm, but he regained his balance in an instant. Cunning, not brute strength, would be the key to winning this fight, or at least maintaining the current stalemate. He sidestepped as the Nazgûl thrust its blade forward, intent on impaling him. His old weapons master had taught him that in order to best a larger opponent, he had to make the other swing and miss continuously. It was a lesson that he had learned well as a gangly youngster. Of course, there was the slight problem of the fact that the Ringwraith showed no signs of tiring, or that it would ever tire. Despite all his efforts, he was merely delaying the inevitable, for he had no idea how he would go about killing something that was already dead.

Blow upon blow came down upon him and at such a speed that he was finding it difficult to keep up. If he continued to merely parry and defend himself, the wraith would soon overpower him. He needed to bring more than conventional swordplay too this fight just to make things slightly fairer.

"Hey!" shouted Pippin, just as the Nazgûl had been about to lunge at Boromir again. The wraith turned. That slight distraction was all Boromir needed. He suddenly dropped and kicked the Nazgûl's legs out from underneath it. That was not a trick he had learned from his weapons master, but from an old mercenary from Khand who, despite his small stature, had been the reigning wrestling champion before he had retired. His opponent screamed in fury as it went down in a flurry of black fabric. Wasting no time, the Gondorian lunged for the wraith's weapon while the Nazgûl was preoccupied and kicked it out of the gauntleted hand. Before the Nazgûl could reclaim it, Boromir had reached it. The Gondorian hefted the huge weapon with a cry, and as he did so, the blade disintegrated and turned into dust, leaving only the hilt behind.

"Well, that's the end of that," he said through gritted teeth, completely aware of the fact that he sounded a little like Logan just then. The clawed man had had a great impact on his life; more than he'd realized. He threw the hilt aside. It landed with a dull clang amidst all the others fallen weapons. Now the wraith was beyond furious. The air around him seemed to grow cold with the Nazgûl's wrath. A morbidly curious part of hm truly wanted to know what it would do to him for such an offence, whilst the rational part of him was screaming at him about how foolish it was to even think that. He probably wouldn't like the wraith's revenge. However, the morbid part would have to continue wondering for the rest of eternity.

* * *

He faltered, just ever so slightly. The wound in his side burned, as much as he did not want to admit it. The bleeding had slowed somewhat, but he knew he had already lost a lot of blood. Considering the way things were going, it was unlikely that the bleeding would stop before it was too late. Every movement aggravated the injury. Legolas ignored it. There had never been any hope for survival, and he was never one to harbour frivolous dreams. Just because he was looking imminent death in the eye now did not mean that he was going to back down. Legolas Thranduilion never backed down without a very good reason and dying simply wasn't enough.

The elf bent over backwards as an orc lunged at him, dodging a swing that would have otherwise slit his throat. As the foul creature went through with the swing, he straightened himself and plunged the blade of one of his white knives into the creature's neck.

Pain burst in his shoulder, making him release his knife involuntarily. The weapon remained in the orc's body as it toppled backwards. Hot liquid ran down Legolas' arm to drip from his fingertips. An arrow protruded from the back of his shoulder, with its head embedded deeply in the muscle. Gimli would never stop reminding him of his lack of judgement when he had eschewed the bulky armour offered to him by the men in favour of ease of movement. That was, if he ever lived to speak to the dwarf again.

With one arm useless, he knew that he was an easy target for the orcs, not that he would ever stop trying to make things difficult for them. He ducked as another arrow flew overhead and then slashed out with his remaining knife. An orc screeched in pain as if tell onto its knees with the tendons in its legs cut, but its cries were quickly silenced when the elf slashed open its neck. Black blood sprayed in time to the dying orc's heartbeat as it fell. Legolas did not stop to watch it. He buried the knife up to the hilt in the chest of another orc who had been about to cleave his head open from behind, and then whirled around just in time to cut the arm of an axe-wielder, causing the creature to drop its weapon as it clutched at its wound.

A wooden snap sounded as the arrow in his shoulder was snapped. Agony shot down his arm and he couldn't help but cry out. There must have been something else on that arrowhead too, because he was beginning to feel lightheaded, and he knew it wasn't the pain. Shadows were creeping in from the edges of his vision.

When he felt the ground shudder beneath his feet, he thought it was just a figment of his fevered imagination.

* * *

The ground suddenly shook, or rather, convulsed, for lack of a better word. The wraith turned away, completely forgetting Boromir. The Gondorian warrior could see exactly why. Something had happened in Mordor. Something significant enough to distract all its legions from the battle that they were currently winning. Huge clouds of smoke and ash were spewing out from the top of Mount Doom. They veiled the sky, making it seem as if it were the darkest hour of night. The darkest hour came just before the dawn.

Liquid fire shot into the sky from Orodruin like a flaming fountain. As the thousands of men and orcs and everything else sentient watched on in shock, there was a loud resounding crack. Barad-dûr itself was collapsing. Its foundations had given away due to some unseen and unknown force. The Great Eye seemed to have imploded, sending out waves of invisible energy that pulsed in the air, sending everything in their path flying. Men were overbalanced. Boromir's eyes were almost completely closed as he tried to shield them from the sandstorm that ensued. The Nazgûl in the air and on the ground let out a terrible untied scream as green light started leaking out of them. The Gondorian took a step back, unsure of what was happening. The robes of the wraith standing before him began to crumble until there was nothing left but a pile of dust that soon got blown away by the unnatural winds assailing them. It wasn't until the wind died down and the grey flecks of ash started falling that he realized what had happened.

Somehow, against all the odds, Frodo had succeeded. That little hobbit had reached Mount Doom with no one but his loyal and stalwart gardener to help him and he had thrown Isildur's Bane into that fiery chasm.

The orcs were in complete disarray. They had not the slightest inkling of what was going on. They did not understand any of it. For them, the Great Eye had ever been a constant presence. They had relied on Sauron's might to inspire fear in their enemies. Now that their master was gone, they were behaving like snakes with their heads cut off, writhing and struggling wildly with no sense of direction at all. In the grips of their panic, they fled, despite the fact that they still greatly outnumbered the men. However, most of them did not get very far. The land itself seemed to be conspiring against them. Great chasms and rifts opened in the earth as they ran, swallowing many legions of those foul creatures. The cracks had spread from none other than Orodruin itself. Great flaming rivers flowed down the slopes of the mountain to fill these cracks, burning the survivors within. As for the men, most of those who still remained standing were too shocked to speak, including Boromir himself. All their lives, they had fought against this dark power in the east. They had never imagined that it could be destroyed. And yet, here they were, standing in the dawn of a new age, one that was born of fire and blood and that would not be tainted by the darkness of Sauron. They were all in shock. However, Boromir was not shocked enough to forget what this moment had cost. Nobody was.

As if they were all waking from a dream at the same time, the men suddenly began shouting, calling out for lost comrades in the hopes that they might still be alive to share the impossible victory. Boromir clambered over the mountains of broken bodies to where his friend lay, pale and still. Pippin was already there by Logan's side, frantically calling his name.

"Come on, Logan," whispered Boromir as he sank to his knees beside the prone form of the Wolverine. He pulled off one of his gloves and placed two fingers against the side of the other man's neck. "Please, my friend. You cannot leave now! Not you!" Curse it, this was the man who had looked death in the eye multiple times and lived to tell the tale. Knowing Logan, he'd probably shown death the middle claw because, apparently, that was rude. He almost gave a cry of joy when he felt a faint but steady pulse. Thank the Valar! Pippin must have noticed and correctly interpreted the change in his expression, because the hobbit's expression brightened. It was at that moment that Logan opened his eyes.

"Did I miss anything?" he asked in a hoarse whisper. For a moment, they were dumbfounded. That was not what they had expected him to say. Then again, this _was_ Logan and he never conformed to expectations. Boromir chuckled and shook his head.

"You are incorrigible, my friend," he said.

"So I've been told," said Logan, wincing as he tried to sit up.

"You missed _everything_," said Pippin. "And you really shouldn't be moving."

"I'm fine," said the Wolverine through gritted teeth.

"You are not," said the hobbit just as stubbornly.

"I'm the Wolverine, dammit! I'm never not fine!"

"You didn't look so fine just then when you were lying so still that we thought you were dead," said the hobbit, glaring at Logan.

"Now that's just insulting," muttered the man.

"I think Pippin is right," said Boromir. "You should not move too much for fear of aggravating your injuries."

"Listen up, you two," said Logan, giving them his best scowl. "I've known me for almost two centuries and I know better than anyone else if I'm fine or not."

"I thought you lost your memory," Pippin pointed out.

"Not enough to forget that all I need in this situation are thirty double cheeseburgers," argued the Wolverine. "Now are you gonna help me or what?"

* * *

This was not supposed to happen. It wasn't supposed to be like this. It was like a terrible dream that he could not wake from. Gimli ran. In all his life, he had never been so terrified, and that had included that time when he had seen Durin's Bane in Moria. He knelt beside the pale prone form of the elven prince. There seemed to be no sign of life, and the dwarf was afraid to touch him in case it confirmed his worst fears. Still, it had to be done. Denial had never helped anyone. With a shaking hand, Gimli felt for a pulse. At first, there was nothing. Dread seeped into his bones and despair entwined itself ever more tightly around his heart. He could not imagine how bleak life would be without his friend there to share it with him. They were supposed to have gone down side by side, if any of them had had to go down at all! He had never thought, in all these months that he'd known him, that Legolas would be the one to fall. He had always seemed so pristine and perfect, almost completely without weakness. It unnerved Gimli to see how helpless his friend was right now. And then, he felt a pulse, faint and unsteady, but it was there nonetheless. The dwarf breathed a sigh of relief. Legolas yet lived, although he was in dire need of help; help that Gimli could not give him. He called out for help using all the strength he had within him. Someone must have heard him, surely.

"Gimli!" came Elladan's voice, or it could have been Elrohir. He still couldn't tell them apart. He saw the elf racing towards him. "What...dear Valar!" Elrond's son sank down on one knee beside Legolas and felt for his pulse. The dwarf had heard of how Elrond could determine a patient's illness simply by feeling the pulse. Perhaps his sons had learned that from him. The son of Elrond stayed like that for a while, deep in thought.

"His heartbeat is erratic," the dark haired elf said at last. "I fear he may have been poisoned."

"Poisoned?" whispered Gimli. Ai, this was worse than he had thought! "Can he be helped?"

"Not here," the elf replied. "I have not the proper materials needed. Come, help me get him onto my back. Gwaihir has taken Gandalf to Orodruin to search for the Ringbearer and Samwise, but the Wind Lord's kin have remained behind to assist us with transporting the worst of our wounded. I say that this warrants a quick flight to Minas Tirith."

"You are going to make him ride an eagle when he is in this state?" asked the dwarf incredulously. He had always known that elves were mad; this only further proved his belief.

"It is his only chance," said the son of Elrond. "The poison is spreading through his body at a rapid pace, and he is burning with fever. Please, Master Dwarf, trust that I know what I am doing. My mother is the daughter of the Lady of the Golden Wood, after all, and my father raised no fools."

Gimli had the distinct feeling that the elf was using his esteem for Galadriel and respect for Elrond against him, but he had to admit that he made quite a bit of sense. Speed was always of utmost importance in situations such as these.

The three of them made their way towards the waiting eagles at a painfully slow pace, or at least it seemed that way to Gimli. The elf spoke to one of the magnificent golden creatures in a soft reverent tone. There was no need to know the language in order to understand what he was saying. The eagle inclined its head in consent and allowed the son of Elrond to climb onto its back.

"Tell Estel and Elrohir where I have gone, in case they think that I have fallen into one of these pits or chasms," said the elf from Rivendell as Gimli helped him to secure Legolas to his back strips of fabric which they had tied into makeshift ropes.

"Don't drop him," the dwarf warned. "If you do, I'll have your head on a platter."

"If I do, I shall offer you my head on a platter," said Elladan. With that, the eagle took off, beating its wings slowly as it ascended into the air, then simply spreading them as it found air currents strong enough to support it. The three of them glided towards the White City, leaving Gimli standing on the ground amongst the dead and the wounded.

* * *

Boromir turned when he heard his uncle's voice. There was a sense of urgency that he had never heard from Imrahil before, but it didn't take him long to see why. The world seemed to fade away until he could only hear the rapid beating of his own heart. Fear lent him strength and speed that he did not knew he had until now. His vision was narrowed down to only what stood before him. Never in his life had he imagined that he would be in such a situation.

He barely noticed the obstacles in his path as he raced towards his uncle and his wounded father. His uncle seemed to be limping, and Denethor looked as if he was already halfway to the afterlife. Boromir caught his father before the older man fell. The lump in his throat seemed to block his voice, and even if he could speak, he didn't know what to say. His father was dying. The rational side of him told him that this was no great surprise, but he still could not help but feel a numb sense of shock.

"My son," Denethor whispered, reaching up with a shaking hand to touch Boromir's face. Blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth.

"Father, no," said Boromir. His voice sounded thick and hoarse and alien to him. "Please, no. Do not go..."

"Do not be childish," Denethor scolded, but he was cut off quickly as he began coughing painfully, spraying bloody spittle with each spasm. "You know I have to go sooner or later."

"But..."

"Gondor is safe and in good hands," said Denethor. "This new age has no need of an old man like me. I am proud of you, my son. Of both of you. I am content to leave you here while I go to meet with your mother."

Boromir felt hot tears blur his vision and run down his face. He blinked rapidly to try and clear his eyes and swallowed. His father brushed the tears away, the way he had done when Boromir had been a small child who had grazed his knee. "Now, men do not weep," said the dying Steward. "How many more times do I have to tell you this?"

"Gondor still needs you, Father," said the younger man in a broken whisper. "I still need you. I am not ready."

"But you are," said his father. "Gondor does not need me when she has you, and the king. I know you and your brother will make me proud." Denethor's hand fell by his side, and his open eyes became glassy as his chest stilled. Boromir felt his father's body grew limp in his arms as the Steward's spirit left this broken mortal shell to once again be with the one he loved most, and this time, to stay with her for eternity. He knew he ought to be glad that his father was happy and at peace now, but the sense of loss was too keen. He held the broken body of his father close, and openly wept for his passing.

* * *

The news of the victory spread like a fire in a dry field during summer. It was all anyone could talk about, this miracle. The names of the soon to be king and his companions were on everyone's lips. Of course, there were some who were quite unaware of the ruckus, even if they were at the centre of it all.

Sequestered in the Houses of Healing, Logan was treated like some 'royal brat', to put it in his own words. The healers fussed over him, scolded him when he so much as dared to ask for a smoke or maybe something fried, and attempted to feed him the most tasteless broth and foul medicines when all he really wanted, and needed, were fries and hamburgers. Well, a barbecue with proper steaks wouldn't hurt either. Merry turned out to be his saviour. With everyone so busy with the upcoming funerals and coronation, no one had much time to visit Logan. Legolas was still bedridden, despite the elf's insistence that he was 'fine'. Logan could sympathize with him somewhat, especially since the quality of hospital food in Middle Earth seemed to be of the same calibre as that of Xavier's private hospital. The healers seemed to be under the misconception that fried food was bad.

Merry was the one who kept on smuggling pies and cheese and everything else into Logan's room. Pippin would occasionally join them for their secret feasts, but the Took was a guard of the Citadel now, and he often had duties to attend to. Most of the time, the Wolverine was simply left to his own devices, although whenever he tried to discharge himself, he found that some know-it-all king-to-be, namely Aragorn, had given specific orders that he was not to be let out until the king himself gave him permission. Alas, with everything going on, Aragorn seemed to have forgotten about him.

Thus, Logan spent most of his time with Legolas and mused about elaborate escape plans which involved jumping out the window and running for it. Occasionally, Frodo and Sam would join them, but the two hobbits had become rather quiet since their ordeal. Their experiences made certain that they always seemed a little isolated from the rest of the world, no matter how hard the others tried to understand what they had been through. Logan wasn't surprised that they were unsuccessful. How could someone who hadn't been in hell know what it felt like to be surrounded by fire and brimstone?

Logan's love life was also something that was oft discussed, much to his annoyance. Legolas seemed to find it rather amusing that he could get so flustered about it. No matter how he tried to steer the conversation in other directions, that cunning elf always managed to get back on topic, and it annoyed Logan immensely. It wasn't as if he needed someone to tell him what he needed to do. He'd already decided.

* * *

She heard the news from her uncle, who had heard the news from Lord Erestor himself. The enemy in the east had been vanquished. A new age had dawned, and the Lady Undomiel was due to wed King Elessar of Gondor and Arnor. It had been a quiet evening until her uncle, a scribe who worked under Lord Erestor, had burst into the room, bearing these wondrous tidings. She had never seen him so excited before, for he was usually a dour and serious scholar who preferred to speak in long words and used many extended metaphors. At first, they did not know what he was saying, for he was speaking so quickly. However, when the news finally sank in, she found that she could not speak.

The only thing on Sidhien's mind was Logan. How had he fared? Was he still alive? She dared not ask, for fear of rousing her family's suspicions. She had yet to tell anyone except her mother and her brother. Even her father did not know. But she needed answers, and who could she ask?

Fortunately, Berenon seemed to know what she was thinking. "Are there any tidings of those who fought?" he asked. "I have some acquaintances in Gondor, and I am anxious to know how they fare."

"Well, I do not know if your acquaintances were mentioned in Lord Elladan's letter to his father," said the older elf. "He did mention Lord Aragorn—King Elessar, of course, and the members of the company sent out by Lord Elrond, which included Mithrandir, Prince Legolas of Greenwood, and four Halflings. The prince sustained some wounds, but it is said that he is recovering at a rapid pace. There was also a curious mention of that odd man who accompanied Lord Aragorn and the Halflings when they first arrived in Imladris. I do not think you will know him, but he made quite an impression on everyone here."

"And is he well?" Sidhien burst out, unable to contain herself any longer. Many pairs of eyes turned to her, and she felt her face growing hot. That was extremely unsubtle, almost to the point of being Logan-like.

"Why the curiosity, daughter?" asked her father. He was frowning, not in disapproval, but in confusion.

Sidhien hesitated. Was now really the best time to tell her entire family that she had fallen in love with a mortal? She felt her mother's hand on her arm. Bronweth glanced at her encouragingly and nodded. The younger woman could almost hear her mother telling her that she had to let them all know sometime. They all loved her, and they would be hurt if she kept this secret from them.

"I..." she began, and then stopped. "This man, Logan Howlett. I know him; I know him well."

"How so?" asked her father.

"I love him," she said simply. How was that for bluntness?

* * *

The news did not go down well with his family, but that was to be expected. This was not a fate that anyone wanted for their daughter or their sister. However, he had long decided that it was not his right to judge what his sister ought to do with her life. It was hers to live. He could only be there to offer love and advice. "Are you absolutely certain that you love this mortal?" asked their father.

"I have never been more certain about anything," said Sidhien quietly. "Ada, I know how difficult this must be for you, but the heart does not listen to reason. I do not want to hurt anybody, but I fear that whatever I choose, I will inevitably end up hurting someone."

"Does he even know about your feelings?" asked her aunt. "The _edain_ are very hard to understand, and not particularly perceptive, I believe."

"I am quite certain that he holds Sidhien in high esteem," said Berenon drily. "If I had not been there, I believe he would have kissed her when he left Lothlorien."

"He would not dare!" cried Maethor, leaping to his feet.

"He did not," said Berenon, "which, I believe, says much for how he feels about Sidhien. He learned etiquette for her sake. If you have ever met this man, then you will understand how significant that is."

Sidhien gave him an exasperated look, and the young elven warrior grinned at his sister ruefully. "You cannot deny that he has no idea of etiquette," he said. "He told Prince Legolas to 'shut up'. The fact that he bows to you is quite telling. He is very serious."

"Well, he certainly does not lack courage," said Bronweth, looking from her son to her daughter.

"But have you considered the consequences?" Maethor asked of his daughter. "Such a love cannot have a happy ending. He is mortal. You are of the Eldar."

"As I said, the heart listens not to reason," said Sidhien. "I know I love him, Ada, and my heart tells me that I ought to follow him wherever he may go."

"And what of your family?" asked her father. "What of your mother, you brother, your sisters? What of me? I love you too, daughter, and I want you to be happy. Are you certain that you will be happy with this mortal man?"

"Is it better to have loved and lost, or to have never have loved at all?" asked the young woman. There was silence as they contemplated her question. Berenon gave his sister a reassuring smile. He knew how nervous she was. Sidhien was still so young, perhaps too young to make such a choice. However, considering the situation, she did not have much time to decide. Mortals bloomed and faded so quickly.

"Does your heart truly lie with this man, then?" Maethor finally asked.

"It does," said Sidhien.

Her father sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, as if he was exhausted. "I cannot say that I am entirely happy about this," he began. "But I trust your judgement, my daughter. All I want is for you to find peace and joy. Perhaps my perception of happiness is not the same as yours. This is your life. Go and live it as you want, not as I want."

"So...do you give your consent?"

"For what it is worth, Sidhien, you have my consent and my blessing."

The young elf maiden leapt to her feet and threw her arms around her father, who held her as if he never wanted to let go, for fear that the moment he let her go, he would never see her again. At last, he did release her, and when he did, he seemed to regard his daughter in a new light, or perhaps it was just the unshed tears.

"There is still the matter of getting you to Gondor," said Berenon slowly to his sister.

"I heard that the Lady Arwen is searching for handmaidens who are willing to accompany her to the kingdom of Men," said their aunt. "If this is what you truly want, Sidhien, then now is your time to strive for it."

* * *

**A/N: **And the war is finally over! I hope you enjoyed the chapter. There was a lot of dialogue, mainly because the characters didn't seem to want to do anything except yak. Now it's onto tidying up the loose ends, and then...who knows?


	55. Man of Two Worlds

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything that you recognize. It all belong to J.R.R. Tolkien, New Line Cinema, Marvel and 20****th**** Century Fox respectively. **

**Cal: **I'm glad you liked it. Every now and then, I seem to get this bug where no one can stop talking. XD

**Phoebe Turner: **Thank you very much. I'm glad you're enjoying the tale.

**Miss: **Logan's never been shy with the ladies. ;) I think Sidhien would be the shy one.

**Partypony: **I'm not so good with Frodo and Sam. I've always been more into the Big Folk and Merry and Pippin.

_Thanks to all my reviewers! If I didn't reply, then it was an oversight and I apologize for that. _

NB: This chapter contains hints of adult material.

**Chapter 55: Man of Two Worlds**

She stood before the lady with her head bowed. Simply being in the presence of Arwen Undomiel, the fairest of her kind, was a bit intimidating, even though the lady had been nothing but kind as she asked Sidhien the expected questions as to why the younger woman thought she would be a good handmaid to the future Queen of Gondor. Stately and beautiful, the Lady Undomiel emanated wisdom and the sense that she knew a lot more than what others her age ought to know. Sidhien, on the other hand, had not even seen two centuries and had only just left Lothlorien for the first time in her entire life.

"You do understand that this will not be a short visit," said Arwen. "Once you are there, you will be required to act as my handmaiden until I see fit to dismiss you. It might be months. It might be years."

"I am ready to do my duty," said Sidhien, daring to glance up into the lady's clear grey eyes. Arwen seemed bemused, and her excitement was not as well hidden as she had thought. After all, she had waited for this, her wedding day, for more than half a century. The young man she had fallen in love with now had silver in his hair.

"Is there a particular reason why you wish to go to Gondor for such a long period of time?" asked Elrond's daughter. Like her father and her grandmother, she seemed to have the ability to see behind the words and faces of others and look straight into their souls. Or maybe it just felt that way. Sidhien suddenly felt that she ought to tell the lady the entire truth. After all, their situations were strangely similar, despite them being so different in age and status. Both of them had fallen in love with mortal men, much to the dismay of their families, and now both of them were ready to sacrifice everything to be with the men they loved. If there was anyone who would understand, then it would probably be Arwen Undomiel.

"Many find me foolish, mad, even," began Sidhien, "but we are all mad in love, milady."

"Whatever it is that you have done, they cannot think that you are more foolish than I for having fallen for one of the _edain_, even if he _is_ of the line of Elendil," said Arwen gently. "I shall not judge you should you choose to tell me."

She sounded so genuine and so compassionate, that the younger elf found herself pouring out her entire tale to the lady. It didn't take long, because as soon as she started, she found that she couldn't stop until it was finished, and truth be told, there wasn't that much to tell. By the time she finished, Arwen's eyes were shining with empathy. She took Sidhien's hands in her own. "Then of course you must come," said the daughter of Elrond. "To think that I am not alone in my plight! My dear Sidhien, some might call you foolish, but I call you brave. It is not easy to choose, and I fear that both of us have made a choice that will cause us pain in the end."

* * *

It was a relief to be free of the healers' smothering concern, but Logan could not help but feel something weighing down on him. Now that the war was over, he had no idea what he was supposed to be doing. He hated being inactive, but there was truly nothing he could do and if he did try to help, he'd only get in the way. He stood on the balcony of his room —it looked like the medieval version of a presidential suite, as far as Logan was concerned. Layers of sheer curtains separated the balcony from the room. The walls decorated with tapestries, and there were several small niches holding marble statues that had been carved with such great detail that even the eyelashes had been depicted. He felt decidedly uncomfortable in this room, for fear that he'd break something by just moving. It was like being a bull, no, a bear in a room full of crystal.

The dreams had started coming back now that he had plenty of time to think. More often than not, he'd wake up with his heart sounding like a war drum and his claws extended, preparing to fight phantom enemies that only existed in his memories and worst nightmares. He was grateful that no one asked questions when he kept on needing new sheets to replace the ones he'd shredded in his sleep.

Logan rubbed a hand over his tired eyes. While it was helpful to get his memories back, sometimes he wished that they wouldn't interfere with his sleep. Most of them weren't all that pleasant. He seemed to have fought in every major war in the twentieth century and he'd done things that he was more than willing to forget. He was beginning to realize that he didn't know himself very well at all, and he absolutely loathed some aspects of the man he'd been before that fateful operation.

Almost every night, there would be a new face to ponder about. Sometimes there would be random names and voices that he vaguely remembered. The one he recalled the most was one with a Cajun accent teasing him about his fear of flying. The thing was, he had no idea why he was being teased and why he was letting himself be teased by some guy who liked to pepper his speech with French. It wasn't as if this was one of his students. He supposed he'd mellowed out a lot ever since meeting Marie.

"You look cheerful," said someone behind him. Logan rolled his eyes and didn't even bother to turn around. Only Legolas could sneak up on him like that, and the elf seemed like appearing when he was least expected.

"Haven't you ever heard of knocking?" asked Logan.

"Your door was open, and I thought that someone with your hearing abilities would have heard me," said the elf as he came to stand on the balcony beside the Wolverine. "Obviously, I was wrong."

"You didn't come here just to rile me up, did you? Because if you did, may God help you, because no one else can."

"Peace, Logan. Surely there is no reason for you to be so irritable?" The elven prince did not sound daunted at all. If anything, he seemed to be amused by Logan's bad temper. Legolas did always possess a twisted sense of humour. That poison arrow he took did not seem to have had any effect on it.

"You'd be irritable if you'd had as much sleep as I did in the past few days," said Logan. Then he snorted. "But that's right. You don't sleep."

"Not in the manner of mortals, no," agreed Legolas. "But come, it is not merely a lack of sleep that has gotten you into this mood. Give me some credit. I know you better than that, my friend."

"I've been gettin' the dreams again," said Logan quietly. He rested his elbows on the railing of the balcony and examined his hands. "And I've been thinking, now that the war is over, what am I doin' here? I mean, it's not that I don't like it, but I'm not part of Middle Earth. I don't understand most of what I see, and I just think that I've finished what I was sent here to do. Where do I go from here?"

"You wish to leave?" The prince was serious now. Logan looked up into those blue eyes. They bore into him as if they could see right through him. Maybe that was because Legolas never blinked. At any rate, it was unnerving. Even now, he was not used to it.

"Well, yes," he began, "but not really." He sighed. "How do I explain this?"

"You do not have to," said Legolas. The elf's voice had grown soft. So soft that it was almost a whisper, except Logan could hear him perfectly well. This sensitive hearing was one of the few things that they had in common. "I understand."

"You do?" To say that he was surprised would be an understatement. As far as Logan was concerned, Legolas was very much a part of Middle Earth. Where else would one be able to find elves —at least, _these_ elves?

Legolas smiled, although the expression did not quite reach his eyes, which was odd, because Legolas usually wasn't this gloomy —and for him, this was almost bordering on melancholy. Well, Logan wouldn't call it melancholy exactly. There was something else that he couldn't describe. He followed the elf's line of sight, but all he could see was grass and some hills in the distance. Wait, was Legolas pining for unrequited love?

"You got a girl who you can't get?" asked the Wolverine. He pitied the prince if that was the case. He'd been there, and it hadn't been that pleasant.

"What?" asked Legolas. The elf whipped around, caught completely off-guard by that question. Then he laughed. "Where did that come from, Logan? I was not aware that we were discussing love, at least not of that sort."

"That look on your face," said Logan. "What else would make you look, well, depressed? There are no caves here so it can't possibly be your claustrophobia —that's the fear of small spaces."

"No, I am not upset about small spaces, and there is no woman," said the elf. "And at any rate, if there was one, I doubt she would be able to resist my charm for long. No, I was pondering your problem of being pulled by two places at once." He sighed. "Elves are not meant to stay in Middle Earth forever, Logan. At some point in time, their true home calls. The sea called to me when I was sailing up the river with Aragorn. It's calling me home."

"Then why don't you go if it's affecting you so badly?"

"Because if I do, I will never be able to return to these shores," said Legolas. "And I am not quite ready to leave behind those whom I hold dear. They need me, and I need them."

Well, this was a surprising turn of events. Never did Logan think that he and Legolas would come to have so much in common, but come to think of it, he shouldn't really be that shocked. They were both immortals, after all.

"Then what are you gonna do?"

"If you were in my place, what would you do?"

"I _am_ kinda in your place, and I have no idea, which is why I'm in such a bad mood. There, I said it. I'm confused, I need advice, I'm wondering if I can ever go home, and what would happen...is it even fair of me to want to marry Sidhien? What would happen to her if I really had to go?"

"When you find your answers, tell me," said Legolas. "I believe they will help more than just you."

* * *

Sidhien suddenly found that she had no time on her hands. Besides getting ready for her departure, she still had her usual duties and on top of all of that, her mother and her aunt suddenly got the idea that she needed to have her wedding dress made before she set off, even though nobody had mentioned anything about a wedding yet.

"If he does not intend to marry you after everything he has put you through, I am going to find a way to kill him," Berenon promised her.

"I am certain that Logan has no dishonourable intentions," said Sidhien, although she was grateful for the support she was getting from her entire family.

"Be as it may, I am an overprotective older brother and I must be prepared," said the young warrior in response.

There was a sense of trepidation, of course, but Sidhien refused to let doubt take hold. She had made up her mind, for better or for worse, and Logan had promised to come back for her after everything had been settled. He was not the sort of man who would go back on a promise. She grew increasingly impatient as sunset after sunset passed. It would be at least a month and a half before their large and slow moving company would reach Minas Tirith, and she was eager to see him and hear his voice again.

* * *

Logan had never been to a coronation before. He might have watched Queen Elizabeth's on television —or he might've been doing something else at that time, like fighting in the Korean War. At any rate, it seemed to be awfully confusing, this whole ceremony revolving around the formal appointment of a new king. He had no idea why it had to be so complicated. Couldn't they just give Aragorn the crown and then issue a proclamation saying that he was the king? And then they could all skip the speeches and have drinks.

At least, that was what he thought. The others, however, seemed to be quite enthusiastic about the pomp and ceremony, and if not enthusiastic, then they had resigned themselves to it. "A coronation is so much more than just putting a crown on the king's head, Master Logan," Boromir explained. "Oaths of fealty will be sworn, titles will be handed out, and do not forget, once Aragorn is king, it means that he will have his bride. We have received word from Rivendell that she is already on her way."

"Well, good on them," said Logan. "Do I really have to wear that tunic? It's really not good for my circulation and I kinda need to have good circulation. I just got stabbed by a morgue blade."

"The healers have seen fit to release you, which means that your wound should not be troubling you anymore and you are merely trying to use it as an excuse not to wear an uncomfortable tunic," said Boromir, seeing through his ploy immediately. "It is a coronation, Logan; the first one in Gondor in many centuries. I thought you might be interested in looking good for it, especially considering who else would be attending."

"Who else, apart from a bunch of people I've never seen before?" Logan poured himself a cup of spiced wine. It wasn't beer, but it was excellent wine, and he was never too picky when it came to alcohol, as long as it was proper alcohol, as in ethanol, not methanol. The wine was sweet, but not too sweet, just the way he liked it. Smooth at first, it left a sharp aftertaste at the back of his throat and the warmth trailed all the way down to his stomach. He took another appreciative sip, careful not to squeeze the goblet too hard lest he crush it. It was a very likely scenario, considering how delicate that thing was. Like the wine glasses back in the States —he'd broken uncountable numbers of those— this one had a long thin stem. There were fine details on the surface, depicting leafy patterns and fruits and some sort of grain. Clearly, a lot of effort went into the crafting of this vessel, not that Logan saw the point. A cup was a cup, whether it was made out of diamond or plastic or a human skull. Well, the human skull would be macabre and disturbing, but the other ones were just cups.

Boromir raised an eyebrow. Logan hadn't seen his friend quite so amused ever since he'd buried his father. "The message we received from Rivendell said that Lady Arwen's company is to be expected on the day of the coronation, and in that company, is a certain elf-maid from Lothlorien whom I think we can all remember."

Despite all of Logan's efforts not to break the glass, he did. Wine and crystal shards flew everywhere as the cup broke under the immense pressure exerted upon it by one metal enforced hand. "Sidhien is coming to Minas Tirith?" he asked. This was completely unexpected, although, in retrospect, he wondered why he hadn't expected it. She wasn't one of those women who insisted on being treated like one of the men, but she was no damsel in distress who needed to be rescued, or, at least, she didn't seem to be. And she had the guts to fall in love with him.

"I hope you are not having doubts," said Boromir.

"Why would I have doubts?" asked Logan incredulously. "You really don't think I'd lead a woman on like that, do you? Why are you looking at me like that...no, one-night stands are different. I made certain that there we both understood that there were no strings attached—it means that we're not emotionally obligated to do anything after that night...no, they weren't paid. They wanted me. Okay, forget I said any of that. It didn't sound so great. The news just came as a surprise, all right?"

* * *

The journey was long, but uneventful. Due to Sidhien's situation, her entire family had been allowed to join the company. In fact, Arwen had insisted that she bring them. "This is one of the most important moments of your life, and it would not do for your family not to be present," the lady had said. She had grown quieter, most likely remembering her own lady mother and wishing that she could somehow be there.

For the most part, her father had been quiet, although her mother and her aunt were getting overly excited about planning the wedding and meeting this clawed stranger whose deeds were known far and wide —and often exaggerated for dramatic effect, as if the real Logan himself was not enough. Sidhien did not believe much of what was said about him. After all, she had known the man, even if they had only interacted for a month. While she did believe that he was an exceptional warrior, nothing could make her accept the story that he had taken down ten mûmakil all on his own.

The company from Rivendell was soon joined by one from Lothlorien, for the Lord and Lady of the Golden Wood were not about to miss their granddaughter's wedding. It was a bittersweet moment, for these were probably some of the last days Arwen Undomiel would spend in the company of her family. Now that Sauron was gone, the elves found themselves in a changed world; a world whose fate now lay in the hands of the _edain_. This was their age. The Eldar no longer found themselves tied to Middle Earth, and it was only a matter of time before they all sailed.

Sidhien found herself wondering about her own family. Berenon was showing no signs of wanting to leave yet, but she could tell that her father was becoming weary of Middle Earth. After all, he had seen too much war and too much death. Such things took their toll on one's spirit. Her mother, of course, would follow her father wherever he went. She didn't know when they were going to leave, but in her heart, she knew that she did not have a lot of time with them. That knowledge always weighed down on her and kept her from being completely happy. Still, she did not regret her choice.

The villages of the _edain_ were only just recovering from the bitter war that had left little of Middle Earth untouched. As the company passed through Rohan, they could see many ransacked homesteads and forlorn grave mounds. When they did encounter settlements, one could not avoid seeing men who had been left scarred and maimed by battle, going about on their crutches as they strived to build new lives in this new age. It was impossible not to admire their resilience.

The climate became drier and the terrain rockier as they neared Gondor. Dry teppe gave way to tamed fields and a vast expanse of green grass riddled with deep trenches and charred patches, marking the battle that had taken place . Her first sight of Minas Tirith reminded her of the tales of old that she had heard as a small child by the hearth at night. Her father might not have been a scholar, but he was an accomplished storyteller who could bring the heroes of old to life simply by his tone of voice animated hand gestures. This was what she had imagined Gondolin to be like, only smaller.

The banners of silver and black were flying high in the breeze. White towers rose high abovef the city. Even thought parts of the city were still in ruins, she could not deny that it was magnificent and entirely different from what she was accustomed to. The lack of trees and the predominance of stone was a stark contrast to Lothlorien and Imladris. As the company of elves drew closer, one of the sentries called out. The shout was passed along from one man to another until it seemed as if the entire city knew that there were elves outside the city. Whether they understood the significance of this elvish presence was unclear.

The great gates were yet to be repaired, although there was hardly any need in the near future, for the fall of the dark lord meant that there was little that could threaten the security of Minas Tirith in the interim. The Haradrim and the Variags of Khand had either fled back to their own lands in the east and the south following the fall of Mordor, and according to reports, many of the chieftains were looking to make peace and establish trading links with the west rather than stand against them pointlessly.

From what she could see, the rebuilding of Minas Tirith was well underway. All the rubble was gone, although no one was doing very much work this day, because everyone had gone to partake in one of the most important events in the history of Middle Earth. This day, Gondor had a king again.

* * *

He was feeling stiff from standing there for so long. Moreover, he'd heard the guards on the lower levels announcing the arrival of one company of elves from Rivendell and Lothlorien, and he was impatient to go and greet them. Well, one of them. However, being one of the king's closest companions, he stuck to his place and tried to pretend that he was a stone statue. It would have helped if he could breathe. Alas, the tunic he'd been made to wear —apparently it was very 'dashing', at least according to Pippin— had a very tight collar. He resisted the urge to tug at it every three minutes and kept on counting down the seconds until he could undo the topmost buttons and then slake his thirst with a few rounds of the ale which he'd seen the servants bringing up from the cellars.

Still, despite his discomfort, he couldn't help but feel a stab of pride as the white crown, with wings of pearl and silver at the sides— tasteful, and nothing like those opulent monstrosities favoured by European royalty— was placed upon Aragorn's head by none other than Gandalf, who was probably Middle Earth's version of the Pope or the Secretary General of the United Nations. The Fellowship was really stealing the show this time. Gimli had been chosen as the crown bearer. Pippin was standing behind Gandalf dressed in the garb of one of the guards of the Citadel, Merry stood with soon to be King Éomer and the Lady Éowyn as a proud esquire of Rohan. Legolas had written back to his father and asked for permission to represent King Thranduil at the coronation. Permission had been granted, and now he stood as the sole ambassador from Mirk—no— Greenwood the Great. There was an elvish name, but Logan couldn't pronounce it. Both Frodo and Sam had places of honour as heroes of the war. Boromir was the new Steward. As for Logan, he found himself amongst celebrated soldiers and generals all awaiting their rewards from the new king for their deeds on the battlefield during the war, along with Scott who, apparently, was also one of those outstanding soldiers. Logan supposed that his laser eyes were pretty outstanding, especially when it came to destroying things.

Aragorn looked nothing like the scruffy ranger Logan had first met when he'd fallen into Middle Earth. The man cleaned up rather well, despite the Wolverine's first impressions. Gone were the stained clothes and the scuffed boots. Instead, he was resplendent in a cloak of red, trimmed with gold thread. His armour was so polished that a girl could have used his chest plate as a mirror for applying mascara. It actually hurt Logan's eyes to look at that armour for too long. There was silence as the golden crown touched that dark head. It was as if no one wanted to breathe for fear that they would miss it.

Despite the sheer simplicity —Gandalf was only putting a metal circle on Aragorn's head, after all— there was something profoundly beautiful about that moment. They had waited for so long for this, watching the king make his way along a very long red carpet (apparently, red carpets were universal) then going up the steps of that dais. It was more than just the long procession, however. Generation upon generation of people had waited for this day, to see a king upon the throne again. Logan suddenly realized that he was watching history in the making. Not so far away, a scribe was busy scribbling down everything he could see, and even the scratching of the quill stopped when Gandalf lifted that crown from the cushion Gimli held.

And then it was over, just like that. If one blinked, one could have easily missed this piece of history. "Now come the days of the king!" Gandalf cried out. The wizard's voice resounded throughout the city. The blares of trumpets followed the proclamation, a clear sharp call that shattered the silence. It was as if everyone had been woken from a stupor, because they started cheering, although in a very orderly fashion in complete contrast to the type of cheering done by football fans. "Hail Elessar, King of Gondor and Arnor!" they cried as Aragorn rose and turned around to face them. Logan was tempted to spice things up, but he bit back the urge. This was Aragorn's big day. It wasn't right to ruin the solemnity.

The lords all approached the dais in turn to swear their fealty to the new king whilst Aragorn promised to be a just overlord and do right by them. The last one to go up to him was Boromir. The Steward bore a white wooden sceptre, an artefact that had been passed down through the many generations of stewards who had ruled Gondor in the king's absence. It was probably older than Troy, if Troy did exist. Then again, what did Logan know about antiques? He just knew that they were very easy to break and that he really shouldn't touch them. Boromir got down on one knee before Aragorn and then gazed up at the king. The two men stared at each other, brothers in arms and lord and subject at the same time. Everyone held their breath. Denethor's unwillingness to surrender the rule of Gondor to the king had been no secret, and no one really knew that he'd changed his mind shortly before his death. Now they were all waiting to see if the son would accept the king, or whether he would challenge the crown's authority.

Boromir was the first to speak. He bowed his head and lifted the sceptre high with reverence, holding it out to Aragorn. "The last Steward of Gondor begs leave to surrender his office," he said clearly and firmly. There was no hint of reluctance in his voice. Aragorn took the sceptre in his hands and seemed to consider it for a moment. Then he raised Boromir to his feet.

"You request has been considered and denied, my Lord Steward," said the king, handing the sceptre back to Boromir, who looked astounded for a moment, although that expression was soon replaced with one of anxious joy and gratitude. "This office belongs to you and your heirs for as long as my line shall last."

* * *

They heard the cheers and the blaring of trumpets as they rode up the many levels of the city. The people gazed in awe at the fair company, and many bowed down to them or threw flowers in their path. Never before had such a large company of the Fair Folk marched through the streets of Gondor. Sidhien caught snippets of their whispers. They were talking about the Lady Arwen and marvelling at her beauty. "Well, would you look at that!" said one elderly matron to her grown sons. "I never thought I would see one of the Fair Folk in my lifetime, let alone so many! Then again, this is a new age with a king. I never thought I would see that either."

They dismounted on the seventh level. Lord Elrond led Lady Arwen at the head of the procession, a proud father presenting his only daughter to the man whom she loved, and whom he had raised as one of his own. Behind them were the Lord and Lady of Lothlorien, then Lords Glorfindel and Erestor. Being a handmaiden, Sidhien was relegated to the rear.

She had never seen so many colours in her life. Her people preferred greys, browns and greens; the colours of the forest. The _edain_, however, dressed in the colours of the rainbow. There were bright reds and jewelled greens and blues that would put a peacock to shame. Gold trim was quite popular, she noted. There were shades of orange, vibrant purples and yellows. The sheer amount of colours was making her head reel. The White City was not so white after all.

In the midst of all this colour, she spotted one tall man dressed in black and looking distinctly uncomfortable in all this finery. The elf maiden's heartbeat suddenly seemed very loud to her. Logan had always been an attractive man in his own rugged way, but seeing him dressed up as a noblemen when he clearly was not one gave her a very strange feeling. She wanted to go to him and...the images that her mind conjured made her blush. Where had they come from? They were not even betrothed yet! This was so improper. His eyes were roaming everywhere, searching for something. Then their gazes met and he grinned, not at all caring who saw him. Around his neck, he was wearing the amulet that she had given him.

All the world faded away for her as she drank in the sight of this man who had occupied her thoughts for a year. They had been separated for far too long. She felt her mother nudge her and then realized that she had stopped going forwards. Her face grew even hotter and she lowered her eyes before hurrying to catch up with the rest of the procession. She was here first and foremost as Lady Arwen's handmaiden, and she had to do her duty. She had waited for a year. Surely a few more hours would make little difference.

Lady Arwen was a vision to behold. Pearls had been braided into her hair. Her veil was made of the finest sheerest white silk. Her outer skirt was made of the same material, and her inner skirt was of the lightest shade of blue, with silver embroidery on the hem and the cuffs. In fact, Sidhien truly believed that the Lady Luthien could not be any lovelier.

Father and daughter stopped before Elessar, then Elrond took his daughter's hand and placed it in the king's.

* * *

**A/N: **I didn't exactly manage Logan and Sidhien's reunion, but I promise they'll get to say something to each other in the next chapter! I felt that this was more a filler chapter than anything. Hope you enjoyed it anyway.


	56. Eternity

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything that you recognize. **

**Phoebe Turner: **Thanks. I'm glad you did.

**Miss: **I'm glad you thought so. It's a relief to write something about slightly more mundane things sometimes.

**Chapter 56: Eternity**

Night had fallen, but in the great hall, where the celebrations were still going strong, it was as bright as day. Well, almost. An inordinate number of lanterns had been lit. The Gondorians were more practical than elves when it came to lighting, because their lanterns looked more like light bulbs than mini glass ships with crew members so lifelike that one could expect them to move.

Great trestle tables had been set out, and they were piled high with food. One table in particular had been dedicated to alcoholic drinks. Usually, that would have attracted Logan the way magnets attracted iron dust, but not this night. He was too busy searching for someone to attempt to get drunk —not that he ever succeeded in doing so. There were so many people in the great hall. He was starting to become overwhelmed by the cacophony of smells. Some people just didn't know that less was more when it came to perfume.

"Are you searching for someone, milord?" asked the voice he'd been wanting to hear for months. He whipped around and if that constricting tunic hadn't reminded him that this was a very formal situation, he would have swept her into his arms.

"Yeah, but she found me first," he said, unable to stop grinning like an idiot. She was as beautiful as he remembered her to be, and despite her formal words and tone, her eyes were sparkling with unspoken delight. "God, I missed you."

"I missed you too," she said searching his face, but she soon looked down, no doubt out of habit. "I trust that you are well, milord?"

"I am now," said Logan. This was awkward. He wanted nothing more than to kiss her, but people were watching. Public displays of affection were probably considered uncivilized in Middle Earth. Aragorn hadn't even kissed his bride yet! No one would be amused if Logan went ahead and kissed a woman who wasn't even his fiancée yet. "Man, I was always thinking I'd be the one to go and get you, but you beat me to it." She blushed, making her seem a lot younger than her one hundred and fifty years. Scrap that, she _always_ looked a lot younger than her one hundred and fifty years.

"You do not think I was too bold in coming here when we are not even...?" her voice trailed off.

"What...no, no!" Logan took her hands in both of his. There were some raised eyebrows, but he ignored them. This was in public, dammit, and they were only holding hands, not putting their tongues down each others' throats. It wasn't as if there was anything promiscuous about some contact. Sidhien let him, although she looked a little nervous, whether it was about the hands thing or about something else, he could not tell. He only knew that it had something to do with him. He really was doing a wonderful job. "You...you know I'm not good with words, right?"

This made her smile. She looked up at him with shining eyes. "Yes, Logan. I know," she said.

"So...I think I'm gonna do this all wrong, but I'm just gonna say it anyway because I really can't keep it in any longer." He took a deep breath. This was it. "I love you, Sidhien. I can't stop thinkin' about you. I know I have problems, many problems. I can't stop insulting people. I can't even remember anything other than the past twenty years or so of my life even if I've lived a lot longer than that. Trouble's always on my tail and I can never outrun it. But the truth is, I really really love you, and I want you in my life...should I ask you for your hand in marriage first, or should I ask your father?"

* * *

Sidhien wanted to laugh. She wanted to cry. She wanted lay her head against his chest so that she might hear his strong steady heartbeat more clearly. "Ask me first," she told him; it took all the willpower she possessed to stop her voice from shaking. "And if I say yes, then you may go and ask my father."

"And are you gonna say yes?" asked Logan with a mischievous grin. Surely he knew the answer!

"I do not know," she countered. "You have yet to ask me."

"Right. Y'know, I was thinkin' of doin' this properly like the way they do in the movies—the stories in my world, with a ring and all that, but I haven't exactly got one." It felt as if everyone in the great hall was watching them as Logan got down on one knee, still holding her hands in his large rough ones. This was a man who lived off the fruits of his own sweat. He stared up at her, and she could sense that he was nervous. She waited. He cleared his throat in the manner of anxious mortals. "Marry me?" he asked. There were only two words, three syllables, but it was enough to make her heart beat so quickly that she felt as if it might just leap out of her chest.

"Yes," she whispered, not trusting her voice. "I think I shall, milord." Her tears of joy were making her vision blurry. Logan leapt to his feet, his grin so wide that it threatened to split his face.

"So...can I kiss you now?"

She was at a total loss as to how to answer. It wasn't that she didn't like the idea of having Logan kissing her, but it was so improper, especially in public when everyone could see them. In fact, she was confused as to why he would suggest it, unless it was not considered improper amongst his people. "I do not think my father would approve," she said at last, "and you have yet to ask his permission."

"Oh, man," he muttered. "Here comes the final test. Meet the parents."

"I am certain that they will come to see what I see in you, milord," said Sidhien, giving him a playful smile to try and alleviate his tension.

"And what do you see in me?"

"Well, that is hard to say," she said. "Right now, I see a very handsome man. This tunic suits you."

"Really?" he said. "Well, you'd better take a long look because this'll be the last time you'll see it on me."

* * *

He felt like a specimen being analyzed by overly observant scientists. When Sidhien's mother had first set eyes on him, her look of shock would have been comical if he had not been too nervous to appreciate it. In fact, she could not have looked more shocked if Sidhien had brought a mûmak to show her. Indeed, to these people, he was more like an exotic specimen from far off rather than a potential son-in-law, or at least he felt that way.

"And you have no family, Master Logan?" asked Maethor. Sidhien's father was a tall elf with chiselled features —like all the other elves— and a very serious countenance. One would not have thought that he was any older than twenty two until one looked into his eyes. He was rather like Legolas in this respect, except Legolas had a sense of humour that was never far from the surface. If this elf had any humour, then it was very well hidden.

"None left alive, I'm pretty sure," said Logan. This was an awful answer. He sounded so crass and cold.

"What happened?" asked Sidhien's mother. She seemed to be the easier one to win over, although looks could be deceiving.

"They...died in a war," said Logan. He supposed Victor did die during a war, only he didn't mention who had killed him. He didn't want to sound like a deranged psychopath. Tragic heroic soldier, yes, but definitely not killing machine. And he was pretty sure his father had been shot, so that wasn't so different from dying in a war, was it? As for his mother...well, the only thing he could remember about her was her horrified and disgusted whisper, asking him what he was. He'd been...what, eight or nine at the time? No, this was definitely not something he wanted to mention.

"That is a tragedy," said Maethor. "I am sorry."

Logan inclined his head in acknowledgement. And was that a glimmer of empathy in Maethor's eyes? Maybe he had lost family in battle also.

"What is it that you do for a living?" asked Maethor. Apparently, the Spanish inquisition was not over yet.

"Right now, I'm a soldier," said Logan, "although technically, I'm a teacher." He glared at Berenon as the elf snorted. Maethor noticed his son's reaction to Logan's answer and he raised an eyebrow in Logan's direction.

"I teach self defense," said Logan rather defensively. "The kids—" Oh dear. Now Berenon was trying to conceal his laughter with absolutely no success whilst his parents looked horrified at the prospect of having a son-in-law who taught young goats.

"That is what Logan's people call children," said Sidhien hurriedly. "He is not a teacher of young goats."

"It is a very odd dialect that you have," said Maethor. He had recovered from his shock, although he seemed to be the only one. Sidhien's mother was still staring at Logan as if the latter had grown horns on his head. The Wolverine self-consciously ran a hand over his hair, quite aware that the two peaks did look rather like horns. "Where do you come from?"

Now he was in trouble. He was pretty sure the elf wouldn't like it if he found out that the man who wanted to marry his daughter came from a completely different world, perhaps even a different universe. At that moment, however, Legolas chose to make his appearance.

"Ah, Logan!" cried the elven prince. "You are just the wolverine I was looking for. I need you to be a judge." Before the Wolverine could respond, being so stunned, Legolas had dragged him away to one of the tables where a huge crowd had gathered.

"What'd you do that for?" Logan hissed to the prince.

"Saving you," Legolas whispered back, "and helping to recommend you in an indirect manner."

"What the hell are you on about?"

"I am of elven royalty, whether you remember it or not. To your lady's family, my opinion matters, and if they see that I trust you, then they might not be so hostile towards you. Now, come. Neither of us emerged as the champion of the last drinking game we had, and I think we had better have another round, after Gimli proves that he is a better drinker than Boromir, of course."

* * *

"The Prince seems to think rather highly of him," Maethor observed. It took all of Berenon's willpower not to mention that Logan was the only one in the world who would dare to tell Prince Legolas to 'shut up'. After all, he was supposed to be on his sister's side, and telling his parents that would not improve their opinions of the man.

"And he seems to be acquainted with Lords Elrond and Glorfindel," said Bronweth as she watched Logan speak with the two elf lords. They were too far away to hear what was being said, but they seemed affable enough. Of course, Berenon had heard rumours about how Logan had told Lord Glorfindel that he looked neither male nor female, although he was quite certain that even Logan would not be brash enough to insult the elf lord who had slain a Balrog. Then again, this was Logan. He tended to do what people did not expect him to do.

"But he seems so..." Maethor's voice trailed off as he tried to search for a word to describe his prospective son-by-marriage. He glanced at Sidhien and then left the sentence unfinished. Even the least observant person could tell that the young woman was truly in love with the man, no matter how unworthy he was of her. Berenon knew that he was being biased, but he truly did not think that Logan was good enough. He was a mortal, for the love of the Valar! He would bring Sidhien nothing but pain in the end.

* * *

"So, you got any tips for convincing her parents to let me marry her?" Logan asked Legolas as the other men cheered Gimli and Boromir on. Beer was splashed everywhere. A terrible waste, but he guessed the boys deserved to have their fun after everything they had been through.

"What makes you think that I have any knowledge when it comes to convincing a father to let you marry his daughter?" asked the elven prince. He held up his hands, with palms facing upwards. "As you can see, I am still unmarried."

"Oh, come on," said Logan. "You must have seen other people try it, and they must have told you about the things that don't work. Don't you have married older brothers?"

"Well, yes, but I would not take advice from them," said Legolas. "After all, my only married brother required my father's aid in convincing his wife's father."

"Well, your dad seems quite knowledgeable about these things," said Logan. "Imagine what sort of advice he'd give me."

"He would tell you not to bother, because you are simply not good enough for her," said Legolas with a devilish grin. "However, who am I to dash the hopes of clawed men who are hopelessly in love?"

"We're going around in circles and getting nowhere, Legolas," said Logan. He was beginning to get impatient. He was in no mood for joking. "Seriously, I need help. You're the closest thing to an expert, bein' a prince and all that."

"Diplomacy is not always a prince's strength," said Legolas wryly. Upon seeing Logan's face, however, he shook his head. "You take my advice at your own peril. "Do not use any of your 'slang' and try to be civilized." Then he was thoughtful. "Do they know that you are immortal? Part of their reluctance could stem from their concern for your lady's future happiness." The elf glanced at where Aragorn and Arwen were sitting, their heads close together. They weren't even talking, but they seemed unnaturally happy. "The first time an elf married a mortal, she gave up her immortality. I doubt that Sidhien's mother and father would want their daughter to do that. If they know that she will not have to, then perhaps they will stop the..._spannerish_ inquisition?"

"Spanish," said Logan. "Spanish Inquisition." He rubbed his chin. "So you're sayin' that I should go up and tell them outright that I'm gonna live forever? Are you sure they're not gonna think I'm off my rocker?"

"I thought only infants needed rockers," said one very confused Prince of Greenwood. Then Legolas shook his head. "Ah, you and your strange language, Logan. I suggest you use words that everyone can understand if you want to convince your lady love's family that you are indeed a suitable match for her."

* * *

He tried rehearsing his speech in his head. Everything needed to be perfect. He had to be upfront, blunt, but not too blunt. All in all, he had to sound like a good guy. And while his friends had managed to convince him that he _was_ a good guy, despite all his misgivings, no one was able to tell him that he sounded like one. Quite worrying, considering the fact that Sidhien's father was not likely to see him on the battlefield. Although, to be honest, he was quite badass during battle and very proud of it. Still, if he were in Maethor's place, he wouldn't want his daughter to marry a guy with seemingly no background and completely foreign mannerisms.

Logan rubbed his temples, trying to think of the right words. Ones that wouldn't make him sound as if he had a stick up his arse and at the same time, wouldn't make him sound like a complete philistine. If only he'd paid more attention when he'd be subbing for an English literature class when they had been learning about Shakespearian plays. That would have come in useful. Even a line or two from one of those poems...something about a ambivalent pentameter or something. They had sounded sophisticated.

The musicians had struck up a lively tune, full of twanging and acoustics. It reminded Logan of just how much he did not belong in these settings. Judging from the looks on the faces of everyone around him, they had grown up in these courtly situations and knew just how to behave. There was a lot of fancy bowing and curtseys as men turned to the women around them and asked them for the honour of a dance. Hey...hadn't they done just that in one of those movies concerning girls looking for husbands? Marie and her friends had been quite fond of them. Logan, of course, had taken one look at the screen and then bolted to the kitchen where the boys had been enjoying a bucket of Kentucky fried chicken. Did those movies talk about how to talk to a woman's parents? Hmm...this was completely different from parent-teacher conferences, not that he had been allowed to do one of those on his own, much to the disappointment of some of his more mischievous students.

This was the completely wrong topic to be thinking about when he ought to be finding ways to approach his future in-laws. Well, there was nothing for it. He couldn't possibly let them think that he was...well, slightly _afraid_ of them. Elves had that effect on people, with their unblinking stares. Sidhien's parents didn't even have Legolas' sarcasm to make them seem...more human. The drinking game between Boromir and Gimli was still going on, although it was quite obvious who was winning. Despite his prowess on the battlefield, Boromir was no match for a dwarf, and especially not Gimli, who seemed to be a seasoned pro at this game. The Gondorian, however, seemed to be quite aware of his abilities. He held up a hand as someone held out another mug full of frothy ale to him. "I yield, I yield!" he said whilst holding onto the edge of the table for support. "Never again will I question the fabled endurance of the dwarves, and I pity the man who repeats my mistake!"

Éomer was grinning as he accepted his winnings from Faramir. "You must have known that your brother could not win," said the future king of Rohan.

"I did, but he is my brother," said Faramir. "I had to bet on him."

"Come, little brother. Do not make it sound as if I forced you to bet on anyone," Boromir slurred. If he hadn't been so nervous, Logan would have enjoyed the sight of his disciplined friend being so undisciplined. The Gondorian eased himself into a chair. "You could have chosen to be a spectator."

"What sort of brother would I be if I did not show some support for you?" asked Faramir. "Even, if I admit, that it was a waste of money."

Boromir laughed. It was the sort of open laughter that one seldom heard from him. "See here? So much for brotherly love. I am only a waste of money."

"Right now, you are also talking nonsense," said Faramir good-naturedly. "I think we ought to find you a wife to keep you sensible."

"Ah, now that you are due to be married, you seem to want everyone else to be married too! Spare me your match-making skills, brother. When the time comes, I shall find my own wife, and that will not be before certain friends of mine find theirs."

"Then you should get your wedding rings ready," said Logan. "Me, I'm almost there."

" 'Almost' being the key word," said Legolas helpfully.

* * *

"Milord, a moment please, if you will?" said Logan. This had not been his idea. He had skimped this off Faramir. What he was going to say next, he wasn't sure, but he knew that he wasn't going to go around in circles anymore. That wasn't him. He was blunt and straightforward, sometimes too straightforward. However, that was one of his virtues, wasn't it? Men could always trust him to be honest.

Maethor turned, seemingly surprised that the rough man with the strange accent had suddenly become so formal. However, the elf didn't say anything, but just regarded him with those grey unblinking eyes. ." Beside her father, Sidhien was looking at him strangely, although the smile she gave him was encouraging, as if she knew that he had thought long and hard about how to address her father. Logan swallowed. 'Here goes nothing,' he thought. "Look, I know you think I'm not good enough for your daughter, and certainly not worth her givin' up her eternal happiness."

"It seems we understand each other perfectly, Master Logan," said Maethor. "Since you said it first, then I shall not hesitate to be completely honest with you. No, I do not think that you are worthy of her sacrifice, and I am quite reluctant to give you her hand in marriage."

"Ada, I love him," Sidhien protested before either of the men could say anything. "You might not think he is good enough for me, but _I_ believe he is good enough. More than good enough. I would give up anything for him, even immortality."

"You don't have to give up immortality for me, baby," said Logan, before he realized what had come out of his mouth. _Baby_? Really? Ah, well, he was just going to have to plough on and hope that Sidhien's father did not notice. "We've got eternity to spend together."

"Eternity?" echoed Maethor. "What do you mean?"

"Immortal," breathed Sidhien. She moved away from her father, all the while never taking her eyes off the man who had netted her heart almost from the moment they had met and learned each others' names. "You are immortal..." She was so close to him that their bodies were almost touching. "Why didn't you tell me?" Her eyes never left his the whole time. She did have the longest eyelashes and the smoothest skin that Logan had ever seen. And her scent...it was intoxicating. He just wanted bury his face in her soft —and unfortunately, braided— hair. No, no. He shouldn't let his fantasies get away with him, at least not while he was standing in public in front of his prospective father-in-law.

"It never exactly came up in our conversations," said Logan. It never occurred to him that it would matter either, until now.

"An immortal _adan_?" said Maethor, looking at Logan in an entirely new light. "How is that possible?" He shook his head. "Of all the _edain_ my daughter can fall in love with, she falls for one who will live forever. Ai! 'Tis the will of the Valar, I deem, and how can I thwart the Valar's will?"

"So you are saying yes, _Ada_," said Sidhien. She seemed to be reluctant to tear her gaze away from Logan's face.

"Yes," said the older elf. "I can say no more on this matter. It was more than coincidence that brought the two of you together, and I would be too cruel and foolish if I forcefully separated you."

Logan grinned, unable to think of anything to say. He wasn't the most eloquent man in the world. Surely if Maethor could accept him, claws and all, as a son-in-law now that he knew he was immortal, the elf could deal with awkward moments of speechlessness. The older elf took Sidhien's hand and placed it in Logan's. "If you, in anyway, cause her grief, you will answer to my sword," he said to the man.

"If I cause her grief, I'll extend my neck for your sword," said Logan.

"If you cause me grief, I shall deal with you myself," said Sidhien.

"I guess I can kiss you now, huh?" asked the Wolverine. He bent down so that their noses were almost touching. It was such a beautiful and intimate moment. What a great pity that it never bore any fruit.

"Absolutely not, young man!"

* * *

It had been a hectic year. Gondor had mostly been rebuilt. The men had spent an inordinate amount of time hunting stray orc parties and trolls and wargs and whatnot. Logan finally got his warg skin, although is future mother-in-law insisted that it was hideous and therefore should not be displayed so prominently on a wall. The hobbits, Legolas, and Gimli had all left for home, although they had all sent word recently that they would all be in Minas Tirith in the first month of spring.

At last, after many months of proper courtship, dealing with orc parties, cultural education and ordering rings, Logan and Sidhien had finally set a wedding date. Originally, Logan had wanted it to be a simple affair, but his friends and his future in laws were having none of it.

"This is quite a significant event, Logan," said Aragorn in one of his few spare moments when he was not bogged down by paperwork or negotiations with foreign chieftains. The Wolverine had discovered that being king was not an enviable job. The pay was certainly not enough to make up for the workload. He sometimes wondered if Aragorn got any time to sleep at all. He always seemed to be needed at three places at once. "You are one of the heroes of the war, whether you admit it or not. Therefore, your wedding must be conducted properly."

"I am certain that your bride will appreciate it," said the queen. After their initial meeting, where Logan had tried unsuccessfully to flirt with her, and in front of her then-fiancé and her brothers, their relationship had become like that of aunt and nephew, or of a wiser older sister and brash younger brother. "Women often appreciate the finer things in life more than men."

"Fine, fine, whatever," said Logan. As long as Sidhien was happy, then he was happy, and he would suffer even the most uncomfortable tunic if it would make her smile. He drew the line at shaving though. "But let's do it the way it's done in my world, all right? At least, make it a bit of a mix." Although this was _his_ wedding, he seemed to have very little say in it because there were far too many important people who were only too happy to organize everything for him. All he had to do was show up.

Surprisingly enough, Lord Elrond's company, and the Lady's company, were still in the city. No doubt they wanted to spend more time with the queen before they left the shores of Middle Earth forever. It was a depressing thought that all the elves were leaving. Despite the fact that Logan did not get along with many of them —Lord Goldilocks being one such elf, although they had reached an uncomfortable truce— he did appreciate them the way that a man could appreciate a tiger. Their leaving marked the end of an era, and also something else. Middle Earth was becoming ordinary.

Gandalf had also stayed in the White City, although he had almost gone to the Shire when the hobbits sent word that they'd encountered and defeated Saruman there. However, seeing as Merry had everything under control, the wizard saw no need. The new king needed him by his side to give him advice on many matters. If King Elessar was the equivalent of the president, then Gandalf would be...well, Logan didn't know what he would be.

All of them got an invitation to Logan's wedding. He had made some suggestions about the guest list, but seeing as he didn't know all that many people in Middle Earth and also did not know how to read their language, he was happy enough to let Sidhien do it with help from her mother and her brother. As for him, his only task seemed to be going to the fittings for his —horror of horrors— wedding robes. Yes, he had been forcefully persuaded to wear robes. He thought he looked ridiculous in them, and Berenon seemed to be of the same opinion, although his future brother in law delighted in sniggering at him as he stood helplessly on a stool at the mercy of the seamstresses. At least they were black, and not green, as his mother in law had wanted. That was, until she'd seen him in that forest green and decided that he was not a man who was well suited to elvish colours. And they were not floor length, which was something to be grateful for. He would die if he had to show up to his own wedding with a gown that was prettier than his bride's.

* * *

Even Princess Diana's wedding to Charles hadn't been so grand, of that Logan was certain. Actually, he remembered ignoring the entire royal wedding so perhaps he had gotten it wrong. Still, there was no denying that this was a huge event. They'd even rolled out the red carpet for him and Gandalf was going to be the celebrant. And there was a king attending this wedding; a king who could actually be king instead of a pretty picture. That had to make this even more significant than Charlie boy and Di, right? Even they hadn't had wizards and kings and elven princes and real-life heroes attending their wedding.

He tugged at his tunic again. Apparently, stag parties were not a part of Gondorian culture. His best man —of course he'd asked Boromir, who'd been a little confused about the whole best man custom, but had agreed in the end— hadn't even known about the fact that he needed a party before he gave up bachelorhood forever. His last night of being an unmarried man was spent in solitude, because he hadn't been allowed to see the bride either. Weddings in Middle Earth were indeed taken very, very seriously.

Logan had to admit that he didn't look too awful with the robes; he just looked like he was getting ready to attend Comic Con, that was all. If his students could see him looking like such a geek, they would have taken multiple pictures of him and then pasted the pictures all over the school website. Actually, maybe they would have been able to convince Bronweth that he didn't need robes and then they would have definitely thrown him a bachelor party, even though he'd probably have ended up paying for it. Logan sighed. It was too bad that they didn't even know about the wedding.

"Well, you look...dashing," said someone in the doorway. Logan whipped around, popping his claws and ruining a pair of expensive lamb-skin gloves. There stood Legolas, in all his princely finery, and with him was Gimli, only the dwarf was not half as controlled as the elf. Gimli had his back turned to Logan, but his shoulders were shaking and he was making some very odd noises.

"You try wearin' somethin' like this an' lookin' good," muttered Logan before he realized that Legolas would indeed look very good in these robes and shiny new boots. Not to mention the tight leggings that were cutting off his circulation. "If I didn't love her so much, I wouldn't be puttin' up with this."

"You annot not attend your own wedding in your own worn leather coat," reasoned Legolas. "Is it even wearable now? Do not answer. It matters not. I am certain your lady will appreciate your effort to appease her family."

"Y'know, I wanted to make them like me, but I didn't mean to bend over backwards to achieve it," muttered Logan. They'd settled on a black velvet for his robes, with gold —gold!— embroidery on the collar, the sleeves and the hem. There was even a cape, also with gold embroidery, as if he was some bloody super hero.

"Just smile and think about the fact that you are finally allowed to kiss her —in a few hours," said Legolas. "This is a happy day, Logan. Stop looking as if you have, what do you call it? A stick stuck up—"

"Legolas! I thought you were a prince!"

"I am merely trying to make you understand the situation, and using your language seemed to be my best chance," said the elf. He turned to the laughing dwarf by his side. "Now, Gimli, now that _Logan_ is settling down, we really must discuss _your_ romantic life, or lack thereof."

Gimli immediately stopped laughing, whipped around and started sputtering. "Me? _Me?!_ What about you, you unmarried ancient elvish princeling?" he demanded.

* * *

**A/N: **I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Weddings are not my forte. I prefer the type promoted by the _Pirates of the Caribbean_ franchise. I'm just rounding things up now. The next chapter will probably finish things off...until the sequel.

* * *

_**Stay tuned...**_

**A TERRIFYING SUSPICION...**

**Legolas: **I may be...

**Jack Sparrow: **Mortal?

.

**ONE LEGENDARY TREASURE...**

**Jack: **Behold! The Fountain of Youth!

**Will Turner: **That's a picture, Jack.

**Jack: **We'll just have to make do for now until we get the real thing, savvy?

.

**A MISMATCHED RABBLE OF LORDS AND THIEVES...**

**Aragorn: **I cannot _believe_ you would do this to me!

**Jack: **You'll thank me in a couple o' hundred years, mate.

**Balian of Ibelin:** This is Hell.

**Barbossa: **No; this be Heaven.

**Paris: **And I thought the Greeks were bad.

_Jack is wearing a white wig and pretending to be a British naval officer. Gimli sits uncomfortably on a tall barstool in a dirty pub with drunken pirates whilst Paris fights off the advances of a woman in a low-cut dress. _

**.**

**A DESPERATE ATTEMPT TO CHANGE FATE...**

_Paris runs towards something. Elizabeth screams. Balian slams someone up against a cliff-face. _

**Achilles: **Jack, can you, for once, stop thinking about making a profit?

**Jack: **Errr...no.

.

**SOME MUST FACE THEIR PAST...**

_A younger Jack glares at Cutler Beckett. _

**Jonathan Beckett: **Blood is thicker than water, Sparrow.

**Jack: [grinning] **But it ain't as thick as rum.

.

**WHILE OTHERS MUST TRY TO FORGET THEIRS...**

**Elizabeth: **This isn't your fight, Balian. Not anymore.

_Will brushes cobwebs off an abandoned anvil. _

**Achilles: **In my day...

**Jack: **Oh, shut it.

**.**

**FRIENDSHIP WILL BE TESTED...**

**Elizabeth: **You left him there to die?!

**Paris: **It was either him or everyone else!

_Balian crosses blades with someone. _

_._

**AN ENTIRE WORLD IS AT STAKE...**

**Will: **If he gets his hands on that...

**Legolas: **Then we are all going to...what is it? Go to Hell.

**Paris: **At least we won't be cold.

_**FROM THE AUTHOR OF THE **_**CHANCE ENCOUNTER **_**SERIES AND **_**IT'S AN ODD COINCIDENCE **_**COMES**_

**CHANCE ENCOUNTER V: FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH**

**Jack: **That's right, you'd better be afraid, mate.

**Beckett: **But not of you.


	57. Sooner or Later

**It's an Odd Coincidence**

**Annon: **I haven't forgotten Scott. He just hasn't been all that important up until now. This story might be ending, but I doubt Logan will stay quiet for long. ;)

**Miss: **I'm not sure if Logan will ever find the middle ground between honesty and being too blunt. XD

**Phoebe Turner: **Thanks!

**Chapter 57: Sooner or Later**

"You make for a beautiful bride," said Bronweth as she arranged her daughter's veil around her face. Sidhien was positively glowing with joy. On her finger was a ring with a thin band and a single —but relatively large— diamond set in the centre and two smaller emeralds on either side. Logan had said that this was an 'engagement ring' which was the standard sort of betrothal gift a man gave to a woman in his world. He'd gone for a _mithril_ band instead of the traditional gold. "Coz it's a prettier metal, and a strong one, so I think it suits you," he'd said when he'd presented it to her, during a family meal and on one knee, no less. Her aunt and mother had been rather delighted that he'd knelt before her.

"I am certain that the _adan_ will be very pleased," said her aunt. Sidhien's gown was a lavish thing; much more lavish than anything she had imagined that she would ever wear. She had chosen a dove grey silk, a shade that her people favoured and that did not look too opulent. The queen herself had given her approval for the colour. However, any attempts at keeping the gown simple had been thwarted. There were tiny seed pearls sewn to the square neck of her gown in swirling patterns. There were also seed pearls on the cuffs.

"I hope he will be," said Sidhien truthfully. To be quite honest, she did not know if Logan would know how to appreciate the hours of craftsmanship that went into the making of the wedding gown. She wasn't sure she knew how to appreciate it fully either. The thing she was most worried about was somehow ruining the dress. If it had been up to her, she would have chosen something that she would be sure to wear more than once. Maybe this would be her one gown for courtly occasions.

"He would have to be blind not to," her mother assured her. "Then again, your Logan does have such strange taste." She shook her head, probably thinking about his usual attire of those fraying breeches, flapping shirt and tattered leather coat.

"My tastes are not entirely conventional, _Naneth_," said Sidhien with a smile. "I suppose that is one of the reasons why we suit each other." In fact, if her assessment of Logan's taste was correct, then he wouldn't care if she had gone to her wedding dressed in a sack.

* * *

Logan shifted his weight from one foot to another as he waited, along with the rest of the wedding party, outside the great hall for the bride to make her appearance. Apparently, this was the way it was done in Middle Earth. No one sat down until the ceremony began, except for those who were too old or too young to stand for long periods of time. And the VIPs, of course, which included Scott. He was actually one of the few guests whom Logan had invited personally. He was there with his new wife. The woman looked a bit uncomfortable but they all knew that her husband could not really attend anything without her being present, seeing as he couldn't see anything. She was his eyes.

"You got the rings?" Logan whispered to Boromir. The Steward had opted to stand with the groom, for which Logan was very grateful. At least there was someone he could talk to. Everyone else was murmuring amongst themselves, speculating about the bride, the circumstances of how the couple met, and everything else even vaguely related to the wedding. Logan could overhear the snippets of conversation quite clearly. The only people who weren't talking about him and Sidhien seemed to be Arwen and her company. The Lady Galadriel was looking at Logan knowingly. There was a wise glint in her eye. She probably had something planned.

"Of course," Boromir whispered back. "But are you certain that plain gold bands really are the best choice after...everything that we have been through?"

"I ain't gonna be wearin' any sparkly stones on my hands, all right, and gold suits me better than silver," said Logan.

"I never thought you would be one to care," said Boromir. Logan was trying to think up a smart reply when a wave of murmurs rippled through the gathered guests. Coming down the red carpet that had been rolled out for this special occasion —he'd never thought that he'd find himself on the red carpet and dressed up to the nines— was the most beautiful sight he had ever beheld, including a jug of frothy clear golden beer with droplets of condensation running down the sides and tiny bubbles rising to the top.

She seemed to glide down the length of the carpet. Her veil was floating like wisps of clouds around her face. Flowers had been braided into her hair and on her hand, her engagement ring sparkled. The soft grey of her gown only accentuated the darkness of her hair and the way her face was glowing with expectant joy. If he'd been alone with her, he was pretty sure he would have been doing something else other than staring.

Beside her, Maethor looked just like any other proud father-of-the-bride, except without the wrinkles and the grey hair. Sidhien's hand rested on his arm as the bridal procession made its way towards him. His heartbeat became louder and louder, drowning out all other sounds. He wasn't aware of the crowds, only of his bride. His bride. It sounded so foreign to him. He had always thought that he would be a perpetual bachelor, considering his tendency to get into life-threatening trouble. In the past, it had always been easier to keep himself emotionally distanced, but Middle Earth had changed him. For the first time, it was as if he truly dared to live instead of merely survive. Perhaps it was for the best. What was the point of surviving if one could not live?

The procession stopped just a few feet from the groom. As protocol dictated, Logan slowly walked up to meet Sidhien and her father. This was the moment when the father of the bride passed her over to her husband-to-be, and since it was so significant symbolically, he wanted to do it correctly. It was hard, though. Traditionally, he had to walk at a certain speed, and there were even rules dictating which foot ought to go first. However, for his sake, they'd simplified it, using the excuse that this was a wedding that incorporated elements from two very different cultures, which was also true.

He bowed and then held out an arm for Sidhien, who took it with a smile. Actually, she looked as if she was trying not to laugh. He grinned. Maybe it was a good thing that he looked ridiculous; if it could make her laugh, then it was worth it.

* * *

The ceremony had been long, and rather tedious if anyone was to ask for his honest opinion. Just as well they didn't, or else Logan would have had to show just how 'uncultured' he was. At least the formalities were almost over by the afternoon, and he was thankful for that. Kissing the bride was apparently not part of Middle Earth's customs. He had asked Gandalf beforehand whether they could incorporate it, since this was _his_ wedding, and therefore, and therefore, it would be right to reflect his cultural background. The wizard had not been persuaded at all.

"The rings are tastefully symbolic, even if I have doubts about their design," Gandalf had told him. "However, kissing and the like should only be carried out in private. You are a friend of the king, now, Logan. You have to show dignity that is befitting of your station."

"My station?" Logan had retorted. "What, is 'Man of Six Claws' now a social status?"

"I liked you better when only your claws had been sharp, and not your tongue," the wizard had said, although he had been teasing Logan.

"Hey, I learned from the best,"

"Aye, I am afraid that our young friend Legolas has had an adverse effect on you. But come now. This is a special day. A man only ever gets married once, at least one would hope so. Do not wave your sharp tongue about so carelessly, lest you injure someone you did not intend to injure."

So far, he hadn't offended anyone, but it was early yet. There was still some time before they could all get drunk and make merry. After Gandalf had pronounced them husband and wife, in place of kissing the bride and throwing the bouquet —there wasn't even one— he and Sidhien had to go around thanking the most important guests —as in the ones who had supported their relationship and made it possible, because romance in Middle Earth involved a lot more than just two people— for attending the wedding and at the same time, receive gifts from them. It was a nice notion, but Logan, being what he was, would much rather write a thank you note than actually have to say it in person in a formal manner. One could hardly just nod thanks at the King of Gondor or the Prince of Greenwood, even if that had been a perfectly acceptable way of thanking Aragorn and Legolas.

As if sensing his nervousness, Sidhien gave his hand a gentle squeeze. He glanced at her and found that she was smiling, no, almost grinning in a most unladylike fashion, as if she was finding something very amusing. Oh, yeah. Him. He guessed he was being ridiculous. No one had expected him to be courtly. In fact, Legolas had as much as told him so before the wedding, being the wonderful friend that he was. "It might reflect poorly on your lady's taste, but she fell in love with you _because_ you had been so refreshingly blunt and uncultured," the prince had said. "Why change who you are simply because you have a larger audience? You never cared before about what others thought of you. Why should you start caring now?"

Logan had wanted to say that he really needed to convince Sidhien's family that he was the right man for her, but in retrospect, that wasn't really why he felt that he needed to become someone else. It was because he was a different man from when he had first entered this strange unscientific place, albeit only slightly. He respected these people, and their opinions mattered, especially those of Lord Elrond, who had been so kind to him when he had first arrived in Rivendell even though he had insulted just about everyone, and of the Lady Galadriel, who had put up with his irreverence a lot better than many other women of her station would have. These were people who had shaped the world around them, and that was more than he could say of most leaders and politicians back in his own world. They talked far too much about their ideologies and did next to nothing. He had no idea why they were being paid to sit around and yell at each other.

People in Middle Earth took marriage very seriously indeed. He had never seen such gifts before —or maybe it was because he had never really associated with kings and princes and whatnot until now— and they were really quite overwhelming. From Aragorn, or rather, King Elessar and Queen Arwen, there were two magnificent goblets wrought of mithril with gems embedded in the sides. "I doubt that even you can crush these in your adamantium grasp," Aragorn had said.

From Greenwood, there were bolts of silk so smooth that they felt like liquid. "Appearances do matter, my friend," Legolas had told him. From the House of Elrond, there were a dozen casks of the finest wine.

"I know how you appreciate a good vintage, Master Wolverine," said Elrond solemnly. "And these, I believe, are even older than you. Do not try to drink it all at once, as you have a tendency to do during one of those pointless drinking games."

"Ada does not think that one's ability to tolerate alcohol is dependent on one's masculinity," said Elrohir with a wink.

"I certainly do not," said Elrond. "If the tolerance of drink were an indicator of masculinity, then why, our women would be more masculine than the _edain_!"

"I suppose so," said his son thoughtfully. "Try not to engage in a drinking game with your wife, my friend. You will be unpleasantly surprised."

The last gift came from the Lady of the Golden Wood. Logan bowed low before her, now well aware of her deeds in long bygone ages. One did not spend all this time in Minas Tirith and not learn something about the history of Middle Earth. Gandalf, in particular, had enjoyed educating him on such matters. She bade him rise. "My gift is not a gift of any substance, Logan Howlett," she began. "Rather, I bring you a message from those who had sent you here. No, Logan. It was no odd coincidence that brought you to Middle Earth. Nothing happens for no reason. You are a man with a purpose in life. True, you shape your own destiny, but you cannot control what life may throw at you. Now has come for you to choose your path. It is your choice whether you remain or whether you return to the land of your birth."

"You mean I...I can just choose to go home and whoever it was that sent me here will just...send me back like a FedEx parcel?"

"I suppose so, yes," said the Lady, although it was obvious she had no idea what FedEx was.

Sometimes, Logan wished that he was someone else. Other people might have been able to deal with this conflict of emotions better. Other people were simply more in touch with what shrinks liked to call the subconscious. All this touchy-feely business was simply not part of who the Wolverine was. Unfortunately, he was the one who had to deal with all these feelings and thoughts. No one else could help him. It was his choice. The emotions and voices inside him surged until he could hardly tell what he was feeling. It was like listening to the cacophonic din of a rock concert. There were high whining wails of half-remembered recollections. The quick 'thud-thud' of his heart served as percussion, and the roaring of blood as it rushed past his ears and into his overwhelmed mind was the bass. He didn't know what to focus on, or even how to focus on anything. Did he want to go home? Yes, part of him did. He missed his students, he missed storm, and he missed motorbikes. Did he want to stay in Middle Earth? He wanted that too. He had friends, and now, he had family. But he had family back in the States too. It wasn't the conventional family, since none of them were actually related, but blood did not matter. Those were _his_ kids back at that school. It didn't matter that he wasn't their biological father. For most of them, he had become more or less a parent —although a very cool parent who tried to give them six-packs of beer for Christmas one time. Storm had confiscated all the beer and threatened to search out his private stash of whisky and confiscate that too. He missed them all so much.

With no answer in sight, he turned to Sidhien. He couldn't leave her. He just couldn't. He supposed he could take her with him, but what about her family? It wasn't fair to tear her away from her family just because he wanted to be with his surrogate one, was it? "If..." he began softly. "If I...decide to go, then...I mean, you don't have to, but—" He was cut off in midsentence when she put a finger to his lips to silence him.

"There is no question about it," she said. It was almost a whisper, but he heard her clearly enough. "I was willing to give up immortality for you. I will follow you to whatever end, milord. Do not even think otherwise."

"But...your family..." said Logan. He glanced up. Maethor and Bronweth were staring at them. The former was wearing a mask of impassivity whilst his wife looked devastated at the thought of losing their youngest daughter so soon. However, surprisingly, it was Maethor who broke the tense silence.

"I may not be willing to let her go," he began, "but this is her choice. I cannot decide for her. As unbelievable as I find it to be, my daughter cannot be happy without you, Logan. Each young bird must someday spread its wings and leave the nest." Logan looked at him blankly for a moment, trying to absorb whatever it was he had just said. This was not at all what he had expected from his father-in-law. He was so protective of Sidhien, and...

"So you would leave your family behind...to follow me?" the Wolverine asked of his new wife.

"Yes," said Sidhien. Her voice was shaking. She swallowed. "I have made my choice. I made it long ago before we were even betrothed." She bowed her head, as if submitting to his authority as her husband. This was too much for him. He needed advice. He looked around. Standing there behind the rest of his VIP friends was Scott, blindfolded, but not blind to what was going on. They really needed to talk.

"I...I need some time..." he said.

"Of course," said Galadriel "It would be most unwise to make a rash decision." The compassion and understanding in her voice only made his heart constrict more. He wasn't used to it. People in his world, outside of his inner circle, either treated him like a mini version of the Cloverfield Monster or a lucrative investment à la William Stryker, even if no one else had ever gone to such extremes. Mostly, he was just the dangerous outcast.

The merry mood was gone, replaced by a tense one of anticipation. Everyone wanted to hear Logan's decision. If anything, it would make for a good tale to tell to the grandchildren in the years to come. The company —at least those who were officially invited— filed into the second hall where great trestle tables had been set up. They were piled high with the most elaborate appetizers Logan had ever seen, not that he had much of an appetite at the moment. Really, he just wanted to consult with his friends, see what they thought —although they would probably tell him to do whatever he wanted and generally be unhelpful, but maybe in their unhelpfulness, he might find something that could sway his decision.

Wine and ale poured freely. Apart from those who knew him personally, the numerous wedding guests forgot about the clawed man's dilemma. They relaxed in the warmth of the food and alcohol. The musicians struck up a lively dance tune full of twanging. "Come," said Sidhien, pulling him to his feet. For a moment, he didn't realize what he was being dragged into, but then it soon dawned on him.

"But I can't dance!" he protested. And he really was in no mood for a polka or something just as ridiculous."

"A warrior like you?" said Sidhien. "I doubt it." Her bright tone sounded a little forced, and he knew that she, too, was contemplating the prospect of leaving behind Middle Earth. It was probably even more daunting for her and yet, here she was, trying to enjoy her wedding day despite all of this. "Besides, the bride and groom must dance first before anyone else can," she whispered as she curtseyed and he awkwardly bowed.

"I have to do this for every dance?" he whispered back. He might have some _very_ vague memories of fifties' style swing dancing, but that was about it. The Wolverine did not do pirouettes!

"If I said yes, what would you do?" asked his wife in all seriousness.

"I dunno...pretend to break an ankle?" He took her hand in his and then placed his other on her waist, they way people did it in the movies.

"And do you really believe that anyone would believe you?"

He couldn't help but grin at that as his body recalled the steps of a waltz. Hmm, maybe he wasn't as hopeless as he had once thought.

"Are you truly thinking of going back?" Sidhien asked him. Her voice had grown sombre again. She looked so young. Although she was almost two centuries old, she had an air of innocence about her that reminded him of someone much younger. Maybe that had been one of the reasons he had been drawn to her in the first place. They did seem like such an unlikely couple.

"Yeah," he said. "I...I just belong there, y'know? But if you really don't wanna leave, I think I can deal with stayin'..."

"But you would not ever be truly content to stay here, would you? I do not want you to be torn. I know that I will have to bid my family farewell someday. That is what a woman has to do. You are one of the _edain_, and I doubt that you will be granted entry into the Undying Lands. It is only a matter of time. So, yes. If you asked me what I would suggest you do, then I would suggest you go back to your world, where you are needed, and I would come with you. Indeed, my mother has mentioned how she intends to sail soon once she has seen me settled, and I am settled, more or less. We will have to take leave of one another sooner or later."

Logan was so very astounded by her speech. For a moment, he simply couldn't say anything.

"I guess..." he finally began hesitantly. "Yeah, you're right. I have to go back. There's so much that needs doin'. Humans are always fightin' each other and killin' each other and I gotta stop them from...I dunno, bringin' on the apocalypse early—" He never managed to finish what he was about to say. At that moment, he felt something pulling at him. It wasn't a particularly strong force, but it was obvious nonetheless. People around him started to panic. He was starting to panic. Sidhien clung to him, unsure of what was going on.

"Dammit!" roared the Wolverine as he began to understand. "I said I wanted to go back! I didn't mean now!" The second hall was filled with complete and utter chaos. Women were screaming, men were shouting, and Scott was hurrying towards the two of them with as fast as he could, led by his wife.

"What do you think you're doin'?" demanded Logan.

"It's only a guess, but if it's what I think it is, then I don't want to miss out!" the other mutant shouted back. "And Maeneth said that she would come with me! We're in more or less the same situation, you and me, except my wedding didn't get ruined!"

A pulsating light grew around them, becoming brighter and brighter with each passing second. Logan felt someone grab his arm. He wasn't sure who, but it sure as hell wasn't his wife, unless Sidhien had grown another hand, this one much bigger than her original two. He couldn't see anything. He couldn't hear anything either. It was as if he was in a vacuum of light. And then he was sailing through the air, or at least it felt that way. He felt bile rising up in his throat and swallowed rapidly. His arms were wrapped tightly about Sidhien and she clung to him for all she was worth. Was he screaming? He couldn't tell. The wind was so loud. And then they stopped, still miraculously on their feet. The world reeled around for a moment before everything settled.

The first thing Logan saw was a urinal.

* * *

Boromir fought back the urge to bring up whatever wine and food he'd consumed. It was not just the fact that his head was reeling. Everything around him smelled foul, as if he was standing next to a midden pit. He reached out with a hand to try and grab something, and at the same time, realized that he was still holding onto his friend's arm with his other hand as if that was his last link to life. And as his vision settled, he realized that Logan's arm was probably going to keep him from falling to his knees, so great was his shock. He had seen nothing like this before in his life.

They were in a dimly lit room, with things that could only be called stalls to one side. There were also some very oddly shaped niches or basins sticking out of the wall. He realized that the stench came from those basins and the stalls. The source of light came from a single glowing globe suspended from the ceiling. It emitted an unwavering, if dirty, glow. Water was dripping from short bent silver pipes into some of the basins at a steady rate.

"Dear God!" Logan was muttering. "Of all the places we can land...it has to be the gents'."

"Is it a bathroom that's in the States?" asked Scott.

Boromir vaguely recalled that a 'bathroom' was not necessarily a room for a bath in Logan's odd dialect. It could also mean...well, that certainly accounted for the smell.

"Won't know until we get out," said Logan, "and I'm pretty sure that we're gonna stick out no matter what country we're in."

They left the 'bathroom' and found themselves in a short narrow corridor lit with some very odd looking glowing tubes that sometimes flickered. They were much brighter than the glowing globe in the 'bathroom', but the light they emitted was unnatural. Instead of being yellow, as firelight ought to be, the light was blue. Blue. The sound of laughter and shouting and very loud music was coming from one end of the corridor. The Wolverine's ears were twitching continuously.

"Definitely American, by the sounds o' things," he said. "And it sounds like one of those geek conventions where they dress up in those weird costumes—" He came to another heavy door, this one with narrow glass windows. Above the door was a green glowing box with writing. Through the window, Boromir glimpsed a world that moved so fast that it seemed like a blur to him. People dressed in great dark coats hurried past with their heads bowed against the sleet, not even looking at one another. Vehicles with two lights like eyes at the front crawled at a snail-like pace, forming continuous chains on the slick wet roads.

Logan pushed open the door. Cold air tainted with foul smoke slammed into Boromir, stinging his eyes and his throat. He had not been prepared for this at all. He was certainly not dressed for this...labyrinth of steel and rock and glass. Great spires towered above them, seeming to pierce dark storm clouds that were lit up by all the lights below. He had never seen such a bright night before. It was as if the sun had never set and had merely descended to the land and split into lights of many colours, more colours than even a rainbow had. They were flashing, moving...the Gondorian was completely overwhelmed by it all. Apparently, he was not the only one. Scott's wife and Sidhien both looked just as shocked. They did not cling to their menfolk, being the sort of women they were, but they did stay rather close.

If Logan noticed his wife's nervousness, then he gave little indication of it. Or perhaps he didn't notice. The Wolverine's brow was furrowed as he read a giant proclamation that had been stuck to the wall of the building they had just come out of. A vein throbbed in his temple; a sign that he was furious. "Come on," he said gruffly. His voice was tense, as if he was preparing for a fight, even though there was no identifiable threat around. He ducked into one of the dark alleyways between the buildings, one of the few places where the night truly seemed like night. There were a few men there, talking quietly amongst themselves. They cast a wary look at the bunch of oddly garbed people, following their every movement with eyes hidden in shadow. Logan took no notice of them. It was as if they did not exist at all. Perhaps ignoring people was the way one interacted with others in this strange world. With no better example, Boromir copied what his clawed friend was doing.

The Wolverine led them through alleyway upon alleyway. He did not speak; he did not even grunt. He only glanced back frequently and held onto Sidhien's hand very tightly as if he was afraid that he might lose her in this maze. The snow and rain did not look as if it was going to abate.

"What is going on?" hissed Scott. "Don't tell me that it's nothing, Logan, because I know you."

"They've passed the bill," said the Wolverine. "They're now gonna mark us like they marked the Jews before they slaughtered 'em." He spat out the word 'slaughtered' as if it tasted foul in his mouth. "How many more times must history repeat itself, huh?"

"My God..." whispered Scott. "The kids..."

* * *

This was a nightmare. One of his worst fears had come true. His kind, and all those he cared about, was on the brink of annihilation. He didn't want to think about what would happen if they got their hands on his Marie, or on any of the kids for that matter. And what about his wife and his friends? With Scott still blindfolded, he was in charge. Logan glanced down at Sidhien. Snow stuck to her long dark eyelashes, and although it was freezing, she did not seem to feel the cold as much as Maeneth did. For once, he was glad that his wedding costume had come with a velvet cape. Said cape was wrapped around the poor woman's shoulders, and it was probably the one thing between her and hypothermia.

They quickly formed a plan. Logan had an acquaintance, an Italian mechanic called Silvio who loved motorbikes just as much as Logan did and who owned a small automobile repair shop. "He's a good sort, once you get to know 'im," said Logan. "And he knows I'm gonna make his life a livin' hell if he so much as turns us in." The idea was to find Silvio, somehow persuade him to lend them his truck, and then Logan would drive them to the mansion. It sounded simple, but there was the matter of avoiding detection. There were so many policemen walking about and asking people for identification.

After taking several time-wasting detours in order to avoid busy streets —and passing through alleyways strewn with used needles and condoms— Logan finally found himself staring at the front door of Silvio's shop. The mechanic lived in a loft above his garage. He could hear the sounds of sumo wrestling coming from within.

"It does not look very safe," said Boromir.

"Well, this city ain't Minas Tirith," said Logan. "We're not all architectural geniuses."

"Are you certain you can trust this guy, Logan?" demanded Scott.

"Positive," snapped Logan. "An' if you don't trust my judgement, then it's just too bad coz I'm the one who can see where I'm goin'." He knocked softly on the door before Scott could come back with a rebuttal.

"Who is it?" called someone from behind the door.

"It's Logan," said the clawed man. "Open up, or I'll cut my way through."

* * *

They heard the clicking of locks as the key was turned and moments later, the door was yanked open. "What is this, Halloween?" said the short squat man with dark hair who had answered the door as he took in the sight of their garb.

"It's my wedding night, bub," growled Logan.

"Meh, close enough," said the man. "But come on in before someone catches you. The things that mutants are subjected to these days..." he shook his head. "I've only heard the rumours, but apparently they've been arresting mutants left and right because they don't have the right documentation, and some of these people just disappeared."

"Just disappeared?" demanded Scott as they followed Silvio into his cramped flat. There were several empty pizza boxes scattered everywhere. A large dog with droopy ears and mournful eyes was lying on a rug. He lifted his head slightly, and then decided that the newcomers were not worth getting up for. "This is the United States of America, for God's sake! Isn't there some law against that?"

"Probably," said Silvio, "but the authorities are either involved in the disappearances, or they're turning a blind eye."

"Why hasn't anyone done anythin' about it?" demanded Logan.

"What could they have done?" Silvio gave them the quickest rundown he could of the Mutant Registration Bill and the new Homeland Security Bill. Logan felt his blood go cold as he listened. He held onto Sidhien's hand. Her presence soothed him somewhat, but nothing could make the growing fear inside him dissipate. He was transported back to another time, a time before adamantium, when he had stood at the edge of deep pits inside the forests of Germany that were filled with the naked and emaciated corpses of men, women and children, covered in only in a thin layer of lime powder. Those people had been killed simply because they had been different from the majority of the society in which they had lived. No one had seemed to care that they had still been human beings, that they had been able to feel the same emotions of anger, love, joy and sorrow. They had been rounded up and disposed of like animals in a slaughter house, and then left stripped of their dignity and identity inside a pit. No one had even given them the dignity of burying them.

"We need to get to the mansion," he said quietly. "Now."

* * *

The purring of the 'truck' was strangely comforting to Boromir. At first, it had annoyed him to no end, but now, he felt that it sounded rather like a lullaby. But no, he could not afford to sleep just ye.t He had to be on his guard in case anything happened. Silvio had mentioned how the 'cars' were all searched at 'check points' and if they found unregistere 'mew tents' there, they would all be as Logan put it so eloquently, 'in deep shit'. So they were huddled in the dark at the back of the truck, feeling every bump it passed over and hoping that no one would find them. For safety measures, Silvio had put his 'bikes' in the back along with them so that they could either hide behind the 'bikes' or use them to escape, not that Boromir thought that he would stand a chance if he rode of these two-wheeled contraptions.

The truck suddenly ground to a halt. Boromir's hand flew to the hilt of his sword, although he did not draw his blade for fear that the noise would attract attention. Maeneth, who had been sleeping, woke. "What's—" she began, but Logan quickly clapped a hand over her mouth.

"Don't give us away," he warned. They heard voices. First, an official sounding one asked Silvio for identification. Silvio laughed and said something that Boromir could not quite understand, although the Gondorian could guess his meaning. The guard laughed too before the truck started moving again.

"Close call," whispered Scott.

"What would they have done if they had found us?" whispered Boromir. He had been clutching his sword the whole time. He now loosened his grip. The pattern of the hilt had been pressed into his palms.

"What my people can do to one another makes the orcs' habits look civilized," said Logan darkly.

* * *

The mansion was a sprawling building of stone and tile. It looked like a sleeping beast in the moonlight, waiting for the sun's rays to warm it and make it come alive. It was a curious piece of architecture. For one, Boromir wondered about its sturdiness due to the many large windows that it seemed to have. And unlike windows in Gondor or anywhere else in Middle Earth, these were covered by a piece of smooth flat glass. Logan approached the door and then pressed a small round button. Inside, there came the sound of something that was like a bell, but not quite. He didn't know why it didn't sound like a bell. It was certainly _supposed_ to sound like one.

Moments later, they heard the door unlock and moments later, the most exotic looking woman Boromir had ever beheld had yanked open the door and flung her arms around Logan. "Thank God!" she breathed. "We thought you were dead..."

"We don't seem to be very good at stayin' dead for long," said Logan, returning her hug awkwardly with one arm. "Um...Stormy? Think you can let go for a moment?"

"I'm sorry," said the woman as she released him. "I was just so..." Then her voice trailed off as her eyes settled on Scott.

"Hi, Storm," said the other mutant.

To use Logan's language, all hell broke loose.

* * *

"We're still open for business, thank God," Storm said as she ladled out leftover soup that she had reheated. Now that he was out of the cold and wearing —borrowed— fresh clothes, Boromir suddenly realized how hungry he was. It had been how many hours since he had last eaten? He didn't know. Storm, or Ororo, as she had introduced herself had been busy making them comfortable. She'd led Boromir to a room herself and taught him the basics about how to use the new amenities. During that time, he had been able to observe her a little, and he had found that she was absolutely nothing like the women back in the Gondorian court. There was no coyness; she had not tried any tricks with him. Maybe it was because she didn't really know who he was, but even so, he knew what sort of effect he had on women. His father had been an impressive man in his youth and apparently, he was a lot like his father. However, he did not seem to have impressed her at all. Ororo had merely treated him with the same courtesy that all guests deserved.

Upon meeting him, she had shaken his hand in the manner of men and he was still not quite used to the fact that women in Logan's world wore breeches. He supposed breeches were a lot less cumbersome than skirts, but they were rather unfeminine. Still, no one could deny this woman's femininity. It was simply a form of femininity that he was not used to. This was a woman who was accustomed to giving orders to men and having them obeyed.

"It's just as well, because mutant children have been flooding in from all over the country," she continued. "With the Mutant Registration Bill, kids who are 'too powerful' have been banned from going to school, and those who are below class two are having difficulties integrating."

"Have you heard about the disappearances?" asked Scott. He looked so different now that he was no longer blindfolded, but wearing his own 'glasses'. He even sounded different, for he was back where he belonged. Boromir looked around the spacious kitchen that they were in. It looked nothing like the kitchens back at home. Here, there wasn't even a hearth. Instead, it was filled with shiny metal and a tap from which they could get water. It was, in effect, a water pump that even a small child could use.

"Of course," said Ororo. "But I am hoping —praying— that these are only rumours. No one has any solid proof that they have been snatching people off the streets." She handed Scott a bowl of soup. "We can't do anything until we get more information, and that's a fact."

She slid into a seat next to Boromir at the kitchen table. She was such a small woman, and yet he could detect her underlying strength. Even Logan seemed to accept her authority. Her colouring was most curious, for he had never seen hair so white, except maybe on Gandalf and Saruman. It was a stark contrast to her smooth dark skin.

"So, what happened to you two anyway?" she asked, indicating Logan and Scott. "You disappear off for one year, or three, in Scott's case, and then come back with strange clothes and a new friend and wives."

"It's a long story," said Scott. "And Logan can probably tell you more, seeing as I wasn't capable of seeing much during my stay in Middle Earth, which was a pity, because I liked what I saw."

Logan looked as if he almost spat out some soup. He quickly swallowed. "You want _me_ to explain?" he demanded.

"You are one of the great heroes of the war, after all," Scott reminded him. "Who was it that cut off a dragon's head while it was flying?"

"Fine, fine, but can't this wait until...well, this _is_ my wedding night."

* * *

**THE END...OR NOT.**

**A/N: **Thank you so much for reading this tale. I know it's been a long ride, and I must admit that sometimes it hasn't been easy. Still, I can at least say I finished my longest story to date. :P Now this part of the tale has more or less concluded. The next instalment, when I get around to writing it, will probably be a direct continuation. As you can probably tell by now, I love writing about culture shock and I would hate to miss seeing our world from an elvish/Gondorian newcomer's point of view.

Special thanks to **Navig8r**, who has been extremely helpful with canon information and picking up on my language errors.

_Stay tuned..._

IT WAS NEVER MEANT TO HAPPEN...

**Will Turner: **How did we end up here again?

**Jack Sparrow:** Things didn't quite go according to plan...

WORLDS CLASH...

**Jack Sparrow: **Welcome to Tortuga!

**Balian of Ibeliln: **I was under the impression that this was Hell.

_Achilles holds a longsword at a redcoat's throat while guns are pointed at him. _

ONLY THE FITTEST WILL SURVIVE...

_Paris holds a gun to someone's head. _

_Elizabeth is steering a ship through a storm. _

_Anna-Maria dresses up as a lady's maid. _

HONOUR WILL BE TESTED...

_Legolas stares at his hands. _

_Balian grabs someone's throat. _

_Gimli is peering through a telescope. _

From the author of the _Chance Encounter_ series and _It's an Odd Coincidence_ comes

**CHANCE ENCOUNTER V: FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH**

Soon to be found in the Lord of the Rings/Kingdom of Heaven crossover section.


End file.
